Dark Tranquility
by Angel-Sinner
Summary: Peerha Mero thought his days of violence were over. But when he returns home to a wife murdered and his life destroyed, he joins a war for Revenge. But by the end of it all, he finds out that nothing is what it seems... R&R, after 200 hits, I'm going nuts
1. The Vivec Raid

**The Vivec Raid**

"Vrale, you have the doors secured correct?" barked Horiss. Horiss was a large and heavy man, but that did not mean he was fat and slow. Quite the opposite. He was naturally large, being a Nord, and just as naturally he was extremely muscular. All his life he'd commanded respect from whomever he'd met. Until he'd met Vrale.

Vrale was a young, lean, and naive Imperial. Worst of all, he had a big mouth., which he used frequently against Horiss. Vrale knew that Horiss could not lay a finger on him, or else he would have to answer to the Captain, so he often back-talked and insulted with much relish.

"Relax you moron. We are guarding the least profitable section, of the least profitable canton of Vivec, the most powerful city in Morrowind, and it is 2:00 in the morning. You honestly think a band of pirates are going to attack us?" Vrale answered back, not looking up from the plate of food he was eating.

"I _said_, did you secure the doors!" Horiss thundered, taking a threatening step forwards.

"Easy buddy. You know what will happen if you touch me." Vrale said, taking a swig Flin. "And for the record, no. I did not secure the doors."

"You what! Get off you're ass and bolt it down! I can't touch you for being an ass, but I can sure as shit beat you down for not doing you're duties!" Horiss said, swiping away Vrale's food and shoving him towards the giant double doors.

Vrale grumbled loudly, picked himself up from the floor and started wiping the food off his uniform as he made his way to the doors. Horiss watched him like a hawk, intent on making sure that the job was done. In the back of his mind, Horiss smiled to himself as he imagined how easy it would be to push Vrale off the ledge someday and explain that he'd slipped out of his own ignorance. It would certainly get the Imperial out of his face. Vrale reached the doors and got to work sliding the wooden beams into there respective slots, barring the doors being opened by the outside.

"There. You happy now? Nothing's coming through-"

At that instant Vrale was distracted by an intensely bright light glowing through the tiny crack between the two doors. Vrale pressed his ear to the door to hear what was going on. Dull movements. Light voices. Someone was outside. Before Horiss could bark orders of retreat, Vrale was swallowed up by the light as the doors exploded in flame, burning him up instantly.

The blast sent bits of wood flying through the air and hot wind rushing past Horiss as he unstrapped his Warhammer from his back. The Nord cursed silently as he watched Vrale flail on the ground, his entire body encased in flames, the screaming and shrieking cutting into him like a thousand jagged knives. _"That's not the way for any man to die."_ Horiss thought. Horiss closed his eyes and whispered a quick and silent prayer. Suddenly, the screaming stopped.

Horiss opened his eyes and saw a figured dressed in black standing over Vrale's burning body. A spear was gripped tightly in the man's hands, and Horiss knew that he'd just put an end to Vrale's misery. Surrounding that man were many more figures, all wearing the same exact garments, and all carrying the same weapons. Each had a short, but effective spear in hand, and at there sides were short swords with serrated edges. Horiss could see those details because the swords were not encased in a sheath but merely held at there sides by a thin band of steel.

"The Black Hand." Horiss muttered, reaching for an object next to his Flin.

This group was a notorious band of fanatics who resorted to murder and plunder to get there ideas about all Elves being the only dominate race, and therefore the only ones who should rule this world. The idea had been created by Dystar, a Dunmer warlord many years ago. Until now they'd remained quiet and secret. But now, almost instantly, the fanatical group had become something to fear.

The cult would always raid a town or city, killing all those who were not of Elven heritage, or even those who were that would stand in their way. As the cult grew stronger every day, there ideas were beginning to take hold. The Mer were actually turning against men and beasts alike. Any outlanders, who were merely despised by the Dunmer, were now being beaten and sometimes killed for the smallest of a mistake. The Imperial Legion have been trying desperately to put a stop to the madness, but all attempts to locate the Black Hand's base of operations have been fruitless. And now the cult had plucked enough courage to attack a powerful city such as Vivec.

A horn sounded within the invaded city, the call to arms raised. Horiss dropped the instrument and hefted his Warhammer, keeping his eyes locked on the charging mass of cultists coming his way. It was time to go to work.

----------

The city was in torment. Flames enveloped the buildings and homes while great black smoke issued forth from within them, filling the domed Canton with the smog. Women and children screamed and cried while men ran frantically to and fro, ordering people to hide somewhere, anywhere, while they themselves didn't even know where the women and children could hide. Many dead lay across the ground, staining the brown bricks a dark and grisly red. The cultists continued their onslaught with next to no opposition. All anyone could do was run and hide.

Elith's baby was crying, adding to the confusion and panic that pressed down upon her. She looked out the window to see the Black Hand were coming closer and closer. It would not belong before they were upon own home. She wrapped her baby in a blanket and cradled her with her left arm. In her right was a crossbow, and at her side a long and serrated knife. She was not a master at combat, but her husband had taught her enough to survive one or two encounters.

Danger. Run away. Fight if cornered. Keep running. If it weren't for these basic instincts, her mind would be completely shut down. She would be one of those women screaming with grief and madness, screaming for the massacre to stop. The mother knew how useless that was however. Selena had tried that. Now she was strung up from her own home and set on fire. Wishes and prayer were of no use here.

The woman pounded down the staircase, but the sound of a crashing door ground them to a halt. The Black Hand were in her home! She finished the descent and hid inside the kitchen. She listened for the sound of footsteps and voices. There was only one, no, two intruders! They did not know where she was, or if anyone was home at all. Her babe had grown blessedly quietly. Praying for the strength to carry on, Elith turned the corner and fired her bolt. The bolt sailed through the air and struck the man in the throat. His face was one of shock as he hit the floor.

"Elith. What have you done?"

"Valence... He. I-I didn't k-know who or what..." Elith stammered. The man Elith had shot had been an Ordinator. His blood continued to flow and seep into the plush carpet, staining it a dark and foreboding red. An explosion shook the building, giving testament to the fact that the wave of cultists were getting ever closer.

"Though a tragedy, it was not murder. It was confusion, panic, desperation. It's understandable, and you won't be punished when it's over. And besides, the time for politics is long gone. We must get the flee before we are added to this tragedy." Answered Valence.

Valance was a young, handsome Imperial, and an apprentice of Elith's husband. He held a Long Sword in his hands, and was quite the swordsman with it as well. However, he rarely used it, preferring peace over violence. But in this world, violence is inevitable. The raid on Vivec is proof of that.

The two exited the building and fled as quickly as they could. They hadn't made it passed the neighboring home when they stopped abruptly. A pair of cultists stood before them, weapons raised and sneers set upon their faces. Their intentions were clear.

"This way!" Valance shouted, lightly pulling Elith down a side alley before the two were sprinting away. The cultists followed. They howled and roared with delight as they chased their quarry down the alley. The path turned a sharp right, and straight into a dead end. Elith and Valance were trapped.

"All ours." one of the cultists grinned.

"Remember the rules. That child is untouchable." said the other.

"...but we may do what we will with the others. If I've heard it once, I've heard it a hundred times." grumbled the first, brandishing his scimitar.

Valance stepped forward, sword raised. A fire had been lit in his eyes, undoubtedly caused by the mention of kidnapping the baby. The first man stepped forward carelessly, slashing his scimitar violently and powerfully. Too powerfully. Valance stopped short of the attack, and the man was put off balance by the force of his own attack. In a flash Valance struck. He struck the man hard in the chest, gashing the leather armor underneath his tunic and breaking ribs. The Valance followed up by swinging heavily at the man's head, landing a blow to his temple straight and true. The man crumpled to the ground, blood pooling.

"Do you dare to contend me now?" Valance hissed.

"Derim was a fool of a fighter to begin with. You will not find me so simple." came the answer.

"I gave you the chance to live." Valance replied, getting ready for another fight.

The conversation ended. The two stared each other down, looking for a weakness they could exploit. There was none to be found. The cultist charged forward, scimitar pointed straightforward. Valance kicked a nearby crate at him, forcing him t leap over it. With this advantage Valance shot forwards and dove into a roll underneath the man, his Longsword whipping out to give a good sized cut to his ankle. The man landed heavily on the injured limb and he fell to one knee.

Valance picked himself up and turned on his heels, using the momentum to swing his Longsword heavily in attempt to behead the man. Elith watched as the injured man put one hand on the flat of his blade while the other remained firm on the handle. With this method he blocked Valance's powerful attack dead. Both blades shattered on impact. Valance jumped backwards, shaking off the numbing feeling in his arm. He had the time. The shards of steel had imbedded themselves in the cultist's face and eyes. He rolled around on the floor, pulling them out and swearing vengeance upon Valance.

The numbing pain in Valance's arm lessened, giving him the ability to actually use it. He picked up his fallen weapon and looked at the pitiful man before him. He contemplated killing the man. Killing him was mercy, but did this man deserve it?

"Valance. We must go." Elith said, listening to the sounds of battle as it grew steadily louder. Valance took his sword in both hands, and stood over the man.

"Every man is deserving of mercy."


	2. The Crying City

**The Crying City **

"Master Meroe. We will be able to view Vivec in a minute's time." Peerha opened his eyes for the first time that morning. He'd been having such a good dream. Dreams of Elith. Sweet Elith. How he missed her. It was this inspiration that made him bolt out of bed and gather his possessions. Dressed and ready to depart, Peerha sat down on the bench beside the Silt Rider. The aged Dunmer spoke, "Here she is. Vivec, looking her-"

The Silt Rider failed to say anything anymore. His eyes had looked upon the city, and grief had taken him. The holy city was in ruins. Great smoke was still rising from the smoldering Cantons, and not a single one had been left untouched. Along the road were numerous survivors, or worse, bodies that had been placed here, as there was no room for them anywhere else.

"What has happened?" the Rider asked.

"Can this insect go faster?"

"No."

"Then I'm getting off now."

Before the Rider could argue that the fall would kill him, Peerha leapt off the back of the thirty foot beast. Just as he landed Peerha tucked into a roll, but that wasn't enough to stop the blunt and numbing pain that shot through his legs and jarred his spine. Shaken but unbeaten, Peerha sprinted down the road, past weeping Mothers, past crying Babies. He simply ignored all of it. Within a few minutes of relentless sprinting, Peerha came to the destroyed gates. A heavily armed Ordinator lifted a Broadsword in Peerha's direction, and he finally came to a stop.

"What's the hurry?"

After catching his breath, Peerha replied, "That's a bit of a stupid question isn't it?"

"State you're business." the Ordinator said, his face flushing with color.

"I am looking for my wife. Elith."

"How am I to know?" Peerha started to argue, so the Ordinator quickly said. "Ok look, if you're really so desperate, go to Healing Site. They have a list of the deceased. If she's not on the list, then she'll be alive and well."

"Or they haven't found the body yet." muttered the other sentry. An awkward silence followed.

"I need to see you're list of the deceased." Peerha said, finally catching a healer who was not too busy. "You'll have to get in line like everyone else. Damn those cultists..." The woman walked away from Peerha, leaving him nothing left to do but get in line. He took his spot behind a weeping woman, and the wait was on. It took many tens of minutes, but finally, it was his turn. He scrolled down the list as quickly as possible:

_Dreesh Sha'ruzuur ---K7712_

_Dren Kren --K7713_

_Dariin --K7714_

_Ebsaarha Ahrsaab -- K7715_

_Eldafire Vahn -- K7716_

_Elone K7717_

_Elith -- K7717 /i _

_------------------------------------_

"Ahh, Freden, good to see yer Inn hasn't been destroyed!" laughed a burly Nord. Patrons of the _Crossed Skullingtons_ looked up at the man with a look of disbelief. In all the devastation, this man was beaming with absolute positivity. "And I see business has picked up too." he added.

"This is dark times Setther." replied Freden, who was pouring a drink of Firewhisky. "In case you hadn't noticed, Vivec has been attacked. The Black Hand struck again, killing indiscriminately. Man women, children, cripples, elderly, you name it, they're all dead. This was the only Inn that survived, and so everyone is coming here to drown out there sorrows. Take this poor soul for example." Freden said, jerking his thumb.

'He only arrived to Vivec this morning. He hasn't seen his wife in three years. He was expectin' to see her again, be with her again. You know how he met her? Cold and lifeless, nailed down in a coffin, her body mangled and brutalized. And that's not even the worst of it. So for your sake Setther, I'd suggest keeping your foolish lips tightly sealed before these fallen individuals come together and lynch you.

"Whoa, whoa, there's no ill will to these fallen individuals intended. In fact, I am here to _help_ them." Setther said, lifting his hands in submission. The Tavern fell quiet, quieter than it had already been, but not out of the patron's silent mourning. For this time, they'd fallen silent in order to hear exactly what Setther's point was.

'These people have all lost their valuables, their friends, their family, and their loved ones to the Black Hand."

"By the Gods Setther, how can you recruit such desperate people at such a time?"

"Those cultists came in and ravaged the place. This is not the first case either. They've attacked and attacked Vvardenfell island for too long. It's time a stop was put to it!"

"Setther, I will not allow you to recruit these men and women for you're mad revenge on the Black Hand! The Legion is on their heels, and the raids will come to an end. If you continue, then you will be thrown out!" Freden said, poking an accusing finger into Setther's chest.

But it was too late. Setther's intentions had been fulfilled, and people were now rising from their seats to back the Nord. They'd had a beast growing inside of them, only held back by chains of sorrow and despair. Setther had brought with him a skeleton key that had unlocked their chains, releasing the beasts within. And these beasts were made of the stuff called revenge, hatred, wrath, and death. Setther had unlocked the beasts within these devastated people so he could their dark properties, and employ them in his own maddened revenge against the Black Hand.

"Are you ready to join together and destroy the Black Hand?" Setther roared.

"YES!" thundered the mob.

"Ready to avenge those you lost?"

"YES!"

"Good! I will see you outside the walls of Vivec, where we will march to war!" Setther roared. The crowd cheered with him, and then returned to their seats as Setther left the Tavern.

"I noticed you were the only one who didn't get riled up." Freden grumbled.

"No need." Peerha replied.

"Don't you wish to get you're revenge too? You've lost just as much."

"Indeed I have. And indeed, I will get my revenge. But revenge is a powerful thing. If you cannot control it, then it will claim you're life. I fear that Setther will not be able to control his revenge. It will lead to not only his demise, but the demise of all the Men and Women who follow him. I cannot let this happen. I will follow him for as long as he remains stable."

"And what if he becomes unstable?" Freden asked.

"Then I will lead these Men and Women."

"Hold on a minute Peerha. I've known Setther along time. He's quite the warrior, and has led many battles before. He will not simply give you his troops. He will die first."

"Then he will die." Peerha finished.


	3. Setther's Tests

**Setther's Tests**

The morning was dull, foggy, and rainy. Yet Peerha and a hundred other Men and Women stood and waited in the bad conditions for Setther to arrive. The man arrived with two horse drawn carriages, both loaded with supplies and weapons.

"All right. Good to see you! First thing's first." Setther started, standing up on a crate. The crowd gathered around him, but Peerha stayed underneath the tree he was leaning against. "Every army has got to have order and formations. First thing I wanna do is figure out what skills you have, and what weapons you're best with."

_"At least he has some sense about him."_ Peerha smirked.

Setther passed around an assortment of bows to the crowd, and then each person got a single arrow. Peerha stayed put. He knew he was no good with ranged weapons, so there was no point in participating. He did however observe closely. Each arrow had been flitted with a different color. Further more, Setther had everyone assemble in rows of 10, ten people per row, to form exactly one hundred archers. A handful of people, Peerha counted seven, stood off to the side.

_"So only One-Hundred and Seven of us are going to take on the Black Hand? Piss poor odds."_

"Ok then. When I say ready, get ready to shoot down the apples I throw into the air. I've colored each arrow's feather differently, so you'll know if you hit or missed. If you hit an apple, I want you to wait over there," Setther pointed to a large clump of trees. "If you miss, then you'll have to wait for a different test. Now then. Ready!"

The archers quickly knocked arrows to string, then pulled them back in anticipation of their targets. Setther waited a long moment. Peerha recognized that he was testing their stamina. One of the Archers lost his grip and accidentally fired his arrow. "HOLD!" Only three of the archers obeyed the command. The rest fired their arrows wildly, getting confused over nothing. "Now, FIRE!"

Setther tossed ten apples into the air. The three remaining archers fired. Peerha watch as a Black feathered arrow sailed past the first nine, but struck the tenth, and went on to imbed itself in a tree. The other two arrows missed by inches.

"Right then. You know where to go."

Heads held low, the archers that missed marched off to a muddy patch of ground. The lone archer that hit his mark walked off to the clump of trees. Peerha hoped to death that none of the others were this bad. They weren't. Of the next group, only two failed. Of the group after that, none failed. In the end, Fifty-four people stood under the clump of trees.

"Good! You lot will be the Archers, obviously. These three crates here, engraved with a bow and arrow, are you're supplies. You'll find Bows in this one," Setther opened the lid. "arrows in this one," he opened the lid. "and enchanted arrows in here." He left it closed. "Now come and get what you need."

As the selected Archers grabbed their supplies, Setther began opening yet more crates. Peerha looked hard, but from his point of view, he could see anything. He'd have to join the crowd. Once he got to the very back, Setther had finished, and was now addressing them again.

"Right, since none of you can use a bow, you'll be infantry. I don't know what weapons you're best with, so I've got an assortment of every style. Come and get them. Then form groups according to you're weapon. The crowd moved, Peerha stayed put. He had his Enchanted Longsword at his side already. Setther walked off to an empty and particularly muddy spot of ground. He waited there and watched as his troops milled about. So did Peerha.

Twenty of the soldiers grabbed a Broadsword, and about half of that number wielded halberds. Peerha noted that several characters held Claymores and battle axes, while another handful carried nothing but daggers. _"Healers,"_ Peerha thought. _"we'll need them."_

"Ok good. Now that you have your weapon of choice, I want each of you to pick a partner and start fighting. Not to kill. But to land a blow, preferably with the broadside, or a scratch at worst. And don't be all slow and cautious about it. Let it rip. The more you _actually_ fight, the better you'll become. After awhile, I'll be picking some of you at random to fight with me. Now then. Get to it."

"Man, I don't even know how to fight." someone moaned.

Peerha turned to find a young man of eighteen looking at his sword as if it was something alien and strange. Apparently, to him, it was. Peerha stepped to him.

"Then why are you here?" he asked.

"Revenge. Who isn't?" the man answered.

"The point of revenge is to actually_avenge_ something. You will fail."

"And how, oh great one, did you come to that conclusion?"

"Because getting killed is not how it works."

The man lost his temper at this remark. With a roar he grabbed his blade, and swung heavily at Peerha's head. Peerha ducked and stepped back once. The man pursued and attacked violently, slashing twice at Peerha, but only hitting air.

"There is no point in attacking someone who will not fight back. They will only retreat, forcing you to over exert yourself, waste your energy, and thus win the battle. If you want to win, then let them come to you."

-------------------------------------------

"Good!" Peerha was tired, and so was Tactus, the young Imperial he'd picked a fight with. The two had been dueling for over an hour. Tactus had poured his heart and soul into fighting him. Peerha could have of course beaten the man in less than ten seconds, but then how would Tactus hone his skills? Instead Peerha had merely blocked and dodged, even taunted him until he truly began fighting. Peerha had sensed a warrior within him. It only had to be brought out a little bit.

"Good." Peerha repeated. He rubbed the flesh wound on his arm, the only blow Tactus had managed to land. "Fight like this, with your heart and guts, and you'll get your revenge."

Many people had watched as Peerha fought and trained the young Tactus. They were quite impressed, 1.) being the fact that a legend like Peerha Meroe was even here at all, and 2.) being that he was doing a better job at teaching than Setther was. The look upon the Nord's face when he discovered this was not one of joy.

"You there!" the Nord shouted. All heads turned around to acknowledge the man. "I challenge you to a duel. First to draw blood is the victor!"

The crowd oohed and ahhed, and whispers of bets buzzed through the damp and stormy air. Peerha looked the man straight in the eyes, waiting a long while before replying. Here was Peerha's answer:

"If this is a test of dominance over one another, then I'm afraid I deny your challenge." Peerha turned and started walking away. He also added, "Besides, I don't want to embarrass you in front of everyone."

A dull ringing noise sounded from somewhere behind the Imperial. Peerha stopped, hand on his Longsword. He knew what that sound was. On either side of him, bystanders scattered widely and nervously away from both future combatants.

"Why don't you tell it to my face?" Setther growled.

Peerha wheeled around, and he saw that Setther was holding a very large Battle-Ax in his hands. Peerha smirked.

"You heard me."


	4. Battle in the Storm

**Battle in the Storm**

A clash of thunder exploded high in the clouds, which was the result of a monstrous fork of lightning three seconds ago. The rain was pouring heavier than ever, the size of a small coin. The clearing was nothing but a mud now, and the hundreds of Militia soldiers were now camped out underneath the trees as they watched the only two people standing in the rain.

Setther had challenged Peerha to a duel. But it was much more than that. Everyone knew who Peerha Meroe was, had heard of his accomplishments. Hadn't he saved the entire world once? Setther knew well of Peerha accomplishments, and he feared them. He feared that he would lose the loyalty of his troops. That was what this fight was truly about. Dominance.

Another flash of lightning forked across the sky. The two waited for the coming barrage of noise. The noise of thunder sounded, and the two darted forward.

Peerha dug his heel into the muddy ground, and pushed right. The deadly sharp blade of Setther's War ax whistled past his head. The momentum of the attack threw Setther off balance and he presented a perfect opening for Peerha to attack. Too perfect.

Peerha stepped backwards a few steps, and was rewarded greatly.

Setther had turned his disadvantage into his advantage by swinging the blade in a wide arc. The blade cut the air in half as he completed the turn. Had Peerha chosen to attack, he would have been lying in the ground, trying to find the other half of him. Instead Peerha was standing, and waiting for Setther's next attack. There was none. It was Peerha's move.

Peerha unleashed a whirlwind of attacks on the Nord, trying to fight speed against power. But the Nord had obviously dealt with quick and agile warriors before. He just as quickly blocked every attack that Peerha dished out, using both dodging techniques and his own style of blocking to keep himself high and dry (so to speak) every time Peerha attacked.

Sparks flew off the two combatant's weapons as they clashed together. Setther moved his blade suddenly and twisted, locking Peerha's sword and forcing him into a lock or to retreat and leave his weapon behind. Peerha chose the former rather than the latter.

He tugged on the blade trying to dislodge it. Meanwhile, the Nord reached for a very large cutlass on his belt loop. He raised it high above his head as he spoke. "Now I've got you!" A malicious glint was in his eyes, and Peerha knew that this Nord was going to kill him. In response, Peerha put his foot on the Nord's stomach and pushed, meanwhile pulling on the sword with all his might.

Finally, the Deterioration spell enchanted upon his Long Sword went into effect, and Setther's Ax blade turned to dust in his very hands. Once freed, Peerha fell backward from the released potential energy and he fell on his back into the mud. Setther dove forwards, trying to crush and stab Peerha at the same time. Instead, the smaller Imperial slammed both feet into the Nord's belly and launched him far past the Nord's mark.

Peerha quickly rolled onto his feet and turned around to attack. As soon as he faced the Nord, something hard, and something heavy hit him in the right shoulder. He looked down and saw Setther's dagger imbedded in his shoulder. Blood began pooling.

"Ha! I have won!" Setther announced, raising his hands in victory.

And then Peerha blacked out.


	5. Midnight's Ambush

**Midnight's Ambush **

"Stop it!" Peerha thundered. He sat bolt upright and grabbed someone's wrist. He heard a woman's voice scream shortly before he let go of the person. Peerha opened his eyes. A female healer was now standing some distance away from him, obviously shocked at his sudden awakening.

"Sorry ma'am, didn't mean to scare you. But that damp cloth you kept wiping over me was getting annoying." Peerha said, trying to fix the situation.

"I didn't mind you attacking me. It happens a lot in my business. I was more surprised that you had woken so soon."

"Why does that surprise you?" Peerha asked, looking for his gear. It was right beside him.

"Because Setther's dagger is enchanted to drain the life right out of you. That's why you blacked out so fast, and a normal person who took a hit like that would have been out for a week."

"How long was I out?" Peerha asked, sitting up.

"Two days."

"And where are we?" Peerha continued, who was running a belt and sheath through the belt loops on his pants.

"Somewhere East of Vivec, and there's not a town for miles."

"And how come we're not moving?" Peerha said, who noticed that they were sitting inside a wagon with a large domed curtain above there heads.

"Because we found a Black Hand encampment a mile away from here. The troops have already moved out."

"Have they begun to fight?" Peerha asked, speeding up the process of strapping on his weapons.

"How should I know?"

Peerha finished dressing and jumped out the wagon. He could clearly see the tracks of a hundred soldiers that marched off through the woods. Peerha chased after them, but stopped when the healer woman called out.

"Peerha! Be careful. I don't want to see you in here ever again."

----------------------------------

The night was calm and still in the encampment. A few fires crackled throughout the camp of seventy Black Hand cultists. Most were eating dinner, or gambling, while ten others were at guard duty. They kept a watchful eye on the dark forest around them, but they could not see the archers that were watching them.

"Hey Friing, quiet night tonight huh?" there was no answer to the sentry's call. "Friing?"

The sentry turned around to find Friing face down on the ground, an arrow protruding from the back of his skull. The sentry never had time to raise the alarm. At the moment that he had even begun to react, fifty-four arrows streamed into the encampment. Screams and shouts of alarm went into the air, and as the cultists tried to understand what was happening, another volley was sent.

"We're surrounded! Form a wall of defense." one cultist cried out. He was felled a second later.

But it was a second too late, as that single order had given the cultists enough sense to do something other than run around in panic. That something they did was exactly as the dead man had ordered. They quickly gathered boxes and shields as fast as they could. Within a minute they had a sizable square of boxes to form a perimeter. With that in place, they gathered shields and dug them into the crates, creating a small, thin steel wall of protection. All the while arrows had been raining down upon them. Once the wall of protection had been constructed, and the remaining cultists squeezed into it, there was only twenty of there number left to fight. The rest lay dead or dying in the encampment, and mostly around the makeshift barricade.

"Gather bows and crossbows and start firin' back. Hell, throw rocks at them, anything to survive!" someone yelled.

"We need to run back to base, that's what we need to do!" another answered.

"Forget it!" a third replied. "They're raining hell on us. Better off here than there."

Suddenly the arrows ceased to fire. An uneasy silence washed over them all. Some stuck there heads in the open for a split second and popped there heads back into safety. No one was shooting.

"Now's our chance!" the frantic man from earlier yelled. He and two others got up and ran from the protection and into the open. They got as far as seven steps when the unseen archers fired again, leaving them in the dirt along with their other fallen comrades.

"Dammit! Stay here or your dead!" said someone.

"You hear that?" the third replied.

"Hear what?" was the reply from another.

"_That _would be a battle cry. They are about to charge."

----------------------------

Peerha had finally gotten near to the fight when he stopped dead. Not because he'd just heard the battle cry; that would only have spurred him on. But because the moonlight that was filtering through the trees had just revealed to him a whole battalion of soldiers that belonged to the Black Hand. And all of them were sneaking up on the pre-occupied mercenary army led by Setther.

_"Shit"_ Peerha hissed. He quickly crouched down and hid behind a large bush.

From what he could see, there had to be at least two hundred of them. Too much for him to handle, and possibly even too much for Setther's army to handle. But there was no way to get past them. He would have to go through them. Grimacing, Peerha drew his sword as silently as he could. This would certainly be no picnic.

"FIRE!" he bellowed.

Nearly all of the of the cultists hit the dirt, hiding from the volley of arrows that would never come. Peerha darted forward, past the cowering soldiers. He was halfway through the lines when they started to get back up. Peerha stepped on one's head and punched another as he stood up. At the other end of the army though, Peerha ran into a soldier who was waiting for him.

Peerha took his sword in two hands and tossed it at him. The surprised soldier dropped his own weapon and caught Peerha's. Meanwhile Peerha himself drew out his dagger and stabbed it forward, imbedding the weapon deep in the man's throat. Peerha took his sword back and continued running, faster than ever now that he had an angry army behind him.

"All men, spears out and get ready to flatten these bastards. On my call. Ready? CH-"

"STOP! Stop, in the name of the Gods, stop!"

The mercenaries who had been standing at the ready stood straight in confusion, looking behind them to see Peerha running towards them, his arms flapping like a bird. Setther's eyes burned with intense hate.

"What does this fool think he is doing?" Setther asked.

"He's getting our attention sir." said a nearby archer.

"That was rhetorical you idiot. I know perfectly well what he is trying to do. If he has a problem, he can take it up with me. Now, Charge!" Setther said, pointing at the encampment.

But it was too late. The attention was fixed upon Peerha, and so no one charged. They all wanted to know what the hell was going on. Setther took notice of this. "What's the matter! Crush them now."

"That would not be wise Setther." Peerha said, finally reaching him.

"Oh? It would take an army to stop me from destroying that small band of cultists." Setther replied.

"Is that one behind me enough?" Peerha said.

Setther looked beyond Peerha and found the angry army that had chased him.

"My god!" Had we attacked, they would have caught u us /i off-guard!" one shocked archer pointed out.

"Shut up! Linemen, form ranks and set your spears. We shall let them skewer themselves. Archers, give them hell." Setther's soldiers moved about, and before long, arrows were whistling through the air and piercing the charging soldiers. "As for you Peerha, never raise a commotion like that again. You happen upon a situation like this again, you report to me directly, and _discreetly_. I am the leader, and you are the follower."

"A foolish leader does not maintain power for long." Peerha muttered, just loud enough for Setther to hear, but Peerha was already taking his place in the ranks. Setther could only add the remark to his list of reasons for why he hated Peerha.

The line of charging cultists was almost upon them. Peerha held his sword near his hip, ready to stab the first enemy who came near him. He kept his eyes ahead, fixed on the target. Even when the final volley of arrows flew just above his head he kept staring straight ahead. He watched a few lines of the Black Hand fall apart as the arrows hit them, but the fallen were replaced by more, and these replacements crashed as one into the waiting spears.

Screams went out from the wounded as they gored themselves upon the spears. It was a necessary evil, as the soldiers who sacrificed themselves took with them the spears, opening the door for a somewhat safe opening in the defenses. The cultists swarmed the front lines, and the battle broke out. Peerha watched as the two spearmen in front of him dropped their weapons and busied themselves with drawing their swords. That left them wide open for the Black Hand. Peerha spotted one of the black garbed soldiers charging upon the distracted men, a shortsword trailing behind his head. Peerha jumped in between his two comrades and thrust his weapon forwards.

He felt the soft thump and sickening squelch as steel pierced skin. The cultists looked surprised, and he dropped his sword behind him before falling to the ground, his life fading fast. Peerha did not shed a tear for the man. It was kill or be killed here. No time for remorse.

The battle waged furiously for only more than a couple of minutes. And yet to all the combatants, it felt like hours. Both parties fought ferociously. The Black Hand with there insane ideas and beliefs of superiority. Setther's men with revenge and hate fueling their every move. Despite being out numbered two-to-one, the cultists began to scatter. Particularly after their leader was felled by an archer.

"Let them run back to there hiding places! Let them spread news of our victory, and let the Black Hand know who they are up against!" Setther roared.

The mercenaries cheered once for their victory. Then again when they realized that they'd suffered minimal casualties. Many had been wounded, but only a handful had been killed in the fight. Peerha helped carry one dead man back to the campsite. There they would be buried, and the names written down. One day there would be a stone set in Vivec City. Upon it would be the names of the dead. Heroes who have died to avenge that grieving city.


	6. Where Alliances Are Made

**Where Alliances Are Made**

Two months had passed since Setther and his mercenary army had begun the war on the Black Hand. In this time, the army had grown slightly larger. Half a dozen new archers joined the group, as well as a score more warriors. All had been picked up at small villages that the Black Hand had razed.

By now the veteran mercenaries had become far more experienced in combat, and they were no longer running training dills in between marches and battles. The only ones who needed combat training were the new recruits. Peerha made sure that he was always there whenever Setther trained them up. As usual, Setther was rough and highly unfair.

"Wield that sword like you mean it kid. Now come at me again!" he roared.

The 'kid' was actually a 35 year old Breton man. Setther was calling him a kid because the man had never taken sword in hand before, making him seem like a child. The man furrowed his brow, obviously angered. He charged forward to attack Setther. The Nord merely parried and wacked him viciously upside the head with the blunt of his claymore.

"Useless! Keep practicing with your partner, if he can put up with it." Setther grumbled, stalking off in his usual bad-tempered manner.

Peerha had watched this rather uncomfortably from the sidelines. He'd simply been sitting on a rock, eating lunch and watching the training. He shook his head, side deeply, and handed his food to Tactus, whom he'd befriended recently.

"Off to help another one eh?" Tactus asked.

"You weren't much different from him. Remember that." Peerha pointed out as he went to greet the Breton.

"But I was much better looking." Tactus murmured to himself.

As Peerha was walking towards the Breton, the man once again began to spar with his partner. The Breton charged forward and swung for the other's legs. He blocked the blow and flicked his sword up to the Breton man's chest. Defeated.

When Peerha reached them, they both stopped. The victor, whom was also a new recruit, but obviously used to combat, relaxed as he greeted them. The Breton held his head down, as if expecting to get chewed out again.

"Greetings." the Breton did nothing, the other nodded. "Might I have time to work with him sir?"

"Fine with me. I might actually get to eat something this time. Jekhel here keeps holding me back."

The man walked away with a smirk. Once he was out of earshot, and when the Breton had decided to speak, he said, "That guy is like a miniature version of Setther."

"I'd noticed." Peerha replied.

"So your that guy I heard about. The one who helps us 'maggots' out. The one who holds the real power around here." the man added this last part in softly.

"Where did you hear that?" Peerha said, curiosity peaked.

"I hear lots of things. See some things too. And from what I've heard and seen, there's two people running this show. Setther and you. Setther knows how to fight the Black Hand, knows where to find them. But he's ruthless you see. If you can't fight worth a squat like me, then your nothin' but meat to him. Nothin' but fodder. But if your a good warrior, or you follow orders to it's exactness, he likes you yeh see. And with Setther, things are very good for you if Setther likes you."

"That's interesting. Anything more?" Peerha was very intrigued now.

"With you, we're all on the same level. We're all equal, and you take time with people like me, help us out-"

"And I still intend to."

"-and help us improve. Your a good man. Some people like those qualities in a man. Some people are just damn thankful for what you've done. Now, if your also a smart man, you'll see that there is a definite split between power. Those people that are in on Setther's slightly better side have allied themselves with Setther. Those that admire you, or respect you, have allied themselves with you. Now these alliances aren't being put into affect yet. But that's because you still follow Setther. When you split apart from Setther, those on your side will follow."

"You've concluded all of this in how long?"

"Two days."

"Not bad at all. I can see why you can't wield a blade. You were a spy. For whom I don't care, but if it pleases you, I'd like you to be my spy. Keep me informed on anything I should know about. Would you do that for me."

"I admire and respect you. You already have my eyes and ears. But if yeh want me blade, I think that helping me out part would be handy right about now." Jekhel said.

-----------------------------

Peerha trained up Jekhel as best he possibly could. It was rigorous, as Jekhel was near inept with a blade. But when the next battle came, not only did Jekhel survive, but he'd tallied a few kills of his own.

In return, Jekhel kept Peerha informed about everything. Who was loyal to whom, and how many either leader had on their side. He was also very adept at reading all the signs the Black Hand left behind, and predicted where they went. Sometimes, Jekhel had it figured out before even Setther himself. This skill was something Peerha had not expected of him, and something that would prove very useful to him as well. With Jekhel's skills, Peerha would no longer need Setther to lead him around and fight the Black Hand. All he would need, in fact, was Setther's troops. With them, he could win the war. Without, they would be cut in half and weak. But until that time came, they would wait it out. It was all a matter of time.


	7. The Lost Battle

**The Lost Battle**

In the sky, thick and dark clouds dominated the large expanse of blue. Loud, roaring wind made it's voice heard, blowing across the world and bringing with it biting cold and stinging dirt. Every now and then, lightning would flash, temporarily illuminating the darkened day, and following it was a clap of thunder that blocked out all sound except it's own.

"What?" asked Peerha.

"I said, 'Excellent battle conditions eh?' Jekhel repeated.

"If you say so."

"Oh great now it's raining." Jekhel complained, shaking a fist at the clouds, who had just then decided to dump all it's moisture.

Peerha and Jekhel were standing in rank, right behind the very front lines. Both were holding spears, and both were very annoyed that Setther had put them there. Behind them was twenty other men and woman, lined up in ranks of ten. Beyond those ranks were four more platoons of forty soldiers. Three platoons stood twenty yards behind Peerha's, all lined up side by side. The fourth was positioned another ten yards behind the group of three, all of them archers.

The plan was to have the Black Hand skewer themselves upon the spears, and tire themselves out on the first platoon. Then platoons 2, 3, and 4 would mop up. And of course, the Archer platoon would rain constant hell. Much like the storm high above all of their heads.

"You do realize that this platoon is made up entirely of men loyal to you right? Or at least, the ones Setther suspects is loyal to you. I noticed that Agoth isn't here." Jekhel noticed.

"Ya, I noticed. This battle has a hidden agenda behind it. One that is making itself all to obvious to you and I." Peerha commented. "At least our opponents are small this time."

Peerha peered across the muddy battlefield at their opponents. It was only one large platoon of footsoldiers. All of them looked tired as well, as though they'd been marching for days. This struck Peerha as odd, because according to report from scouts, this particular regiment of the Black Hand had been occupying the area for over a month now.

"I fear something else is afoot." Peerha muttered.

"Like what." Jekhel whispered back.

"Like-"

Just then a loud horn sounded across the battlefield. The Black Hand was making the first move. The platoon marched forward as one, their boots steps making a large squelching stomp as they stepped into the mud. The first rank of the Black Hand lowered their own spears. It must have been some sort of sign, because just then, the Black Hand began running. Closer and closer they came, the distance closing frighteningly quick. Everyone around Peerha was getting a little nervous. Including Peerha himself.

"Not long before those archers start shooting eh?" Jekhel laughed, but the tone in his voice gave away his nervousness.

"Dammit Setther, give the order." Peerha muttered.

As the Black Hand came within ten yards of Peerha and his men's waiting spears, he was relieved to hear the swishing sound of arrows flying over his head. He watched as they smashed into the ranks. Only seven fell to the mud. Less than a third of the Archers present.

"At least _our _guys did something." Peerha ground his teeth.

"That Setther is leaving us on our own!" shouted Tactus, who was somewhere to Peerha's right.

An instant later, the Black Hand collided with the mercenary army. Spears met flesh as the Black Hand both drove themselves into enemy spears and stabbed their own into Peerha's soldiers. Peerha held his spear firm until he felt the satisfying feeling of another man running into the pointed end of it. He quickly let go and drew his sword. Once loose, he slashed it sideways, knocking a spear to the side before it impaled him in the face.

Before he had time to think, a cultist was standing directly in front of Peerha, a very large and very deadly battle ax in his hands. The cultist swung it heavily at his head. Peerha ducked the blow and lunged forward, his sword plunging into the man's belly. Blood dripped from the wound and stained his hands as Peerha tried to pull his blade out of the man. Unfortunately, the thing had become lodged in the man's spine.

Peerha continued tugging on the blade, inching it out slowly. He was just thinking that this would be the perfect time for someone to attack when they did. The man was an amateur though. He screamed loudly, a knife in hand, and ran straight at Peerha. No technique. No plan. Peerha kept his hands on his blade but stuck a booted foot out in the air. The cultist ran straight into it, and he hit the dirt instantly. Before the man could get back up, Peerha grabbed the battle ax that had been dropped by his earlier opponent and raised it over his head.

The downed cultist didn't have a chance. Peerha drove the weapon into his chest, finishing him off. He didn't like killing a man like that, but he knew perfectly well that there was no honor among the Black Hand. Therefore, he would not spare any of his. Peerha turned back to the dead man and his sword.

The body had now fallen to the ground, face first. The ground had pushed the blade back even deeper than before.

"Dammit." Peerha grumbled.

---------------------------------

The battle raged on between the two small platoons of soldiers. Both were evenly matched at the moment. If Setther wanted to, he could send the rest of the troops in and slaughter the Black Hand. But if he did that, Peerha and his troops would survive. Peerha was a threat to his seat of power. Such threats had to be eliminated.

"Sir. Do we attack?" asked a flag bearer. He was inquiring because normally, they would have charged by now.

"Hold strong. It's time we stomped on these bugs once and for all." Setther replied.

"I don't understand."

"I mean it's time we exterminated Peerha. With him out of the picture, we won't have any more trouble."

"But sir, we've never had trouble from Peerha." the flag-bearer answered.

"How many times has he undermined my authority?" Setther barked. "How many times has he ordered a certain number of _my_ troops, the ones you see fighting right now, to do something entirely against my orders?"

"But sir, he saved us from several ambushes in doing so." the flag-bearer answered, now getting deeply disturbed.

Setther hadn't heard him completely though, "Several, that's right. And pretty soon, he'll be commanding everyone. He is trying to take away my leadership! I won't let it happen. He dies today."

Now the flag-bearer was getting heavily disturbed. Setther had always been foul tempered and very tough. But add crazy to the mix, and Setther was not looking like such a fine leader anymore. It was true that the loyalty of the entire mercenary army was divided between Peerha and Setther, yes. But it was not as if Peerha was deliberately disobeying Setther. He was merely saving the day. Something a hero does. Not a leader. It was all very confused to the poor flag-bearer.

"But sir, if you want Peerha dead, why not just assassinate him in his sleep? Why sacrifice all those men and women out there?" the flag-bearer questioned.

"Whose side are you on any ways?" Setther growled, getting annoyed by all the feedback.

"You sir." _'But that might change if you keep acting crazy like this.'_ the flag-bearer thought bitterly.

"If I assassinated Peerha, those troops out there would be outraged. They would no longer fight for me. They would leave. Or worse, rebel, costing the lives of more men that are loyal to me. He has to die in combat. There's no other way."

"Sir, you are a genius." _'And a fool'. _

_---------------------------------------------_

The man was no novice to battle. He'd fought a few himself. But this cultist was nowhere near Peerha's abilities. Still, Peerha took his time. He studied his opponent. He never underestimated his opponents, no matter how weak they might appear. The cultist struck first.

He dug his foot into the mud and kicked. Brown, thick liquid sprayed up at Peerha. Rather than run the risk of getting blinded, Peerha shut his eyes. He felt the cold mud spray all over his face. But now he couldn't see his enemy.

Peerha ducked and rolled backwards. His guess was rewarded when he heard the swish of a blade slice the air, the spot where his neck had been only seconds before. Peerha stood up from his roll and wiped his eyes clean of the mud. His opponent was in front of him, attacking again.

Peerha parried the lunging attack. As the cultist's momentum brought him beside Peerha, Peerha himself shouldered the man in the chin. The man staggered backwards, blood flowing from his mouth. He'd bitten hard on his tongue.

Enraged, the cultist leaped forward, letting loose a flurry of attacks. Peerha blocked them all, waiting for his opening. He found it as the man tripped on one of the many bodies that littered the battlefield. Peerha dropped to a knee, set his sword on his knee and held it in place. The cultist did all the killing for him. The man, who was unable to regain his balance, fell forwards, and impaled himself. Peerha pulled the sword out, glad that it wasn't entrenched in this one's body. He let the pouring rain do the cleaning.

As he stood there, he looked at the combatants around him. Lot's of men were lying on the ground. Some were missing limbs; some heads. Even in the darkness, Peerha could see the crimson blood mixing with the water and mud. It was everywhere.

Nearly all of the mercenary troops in his platoon had been slaughtered. But as he looked around, he found that about the same amount of Black Hand cultists had been killed. It was pretty much even.

"If I were them, I'd start running. Setther will charge eventually, even if he wants us dead." he muttered to himself. Strangely enough, the cultists began retreating at that very moment. "I'll be damned."

Numerous cultists could be heard shouting "Run!". Some of them dropped their weapons. Peerha sheathed his sword. This battle was over. He started counting how many men in his platoon were left. 17. Out of 40. Setther had gotten his slaughter. And that was why he ordered his men to charge. Peerha almost drew his word to defend himself, then he realized Setther's men were chasing the fleeing cultists.

"Let em' chase them all the way to Oblivion for all I care. I have my own men to care about." Peerha muttered, kicking a spear that was imbedded in the ground. The wooden shaft snapped and lost itself beneath the mud and water.

Peerha started dragging bodies off the battlefield, putting his men in a line. Others started helping, except for Setther's men. They simply stomped through the battlefield, minds set on only their own motives.

"What I tell you? Setther wanted to wipe us out." Jekhel said, spitting o a near-by cultist's body. "Didn't get us all did you!" he thundered tossing a rock at the man in question, who was marching past without looking at them, or the bodies, at all. Peerha glared as he smirked with triumph.

"I hope there's a secret army waiting in that ravine they just charged into." Tactus grumbled, who was tying a rag to his arm, where he'd received a rather nasty wound.

"How's your arm?" Jekhel asked.

"Oh fine. Damn bugger sneaked it in. Took a dagger and... Peerha? Why are you staring at me?" Tactus' last statement had rattled him. "Seriously man, look away. Your creeping me out."

"What'd you say?" Peerha finally said.

"I said, your creeping me out."

"No before that."

"He took a knife and-"

"Keep going back."

"I said I hope there's a secret cultist army in that ravine Setther just so proudly marched into."

"That's what I thought I heard." Peerha muttered.

--------------------------------------------------

"Look at that! We have them trapped like a sewer rat! Infantry, charge!" Setther roared. And that's when all hell broke loose.

From above, on ledges of the ravine, Black Hand archers appeared, and within seconds, they were all firing arrows down into Setther's soldiers, who were caught totally unawares. The volley of arrows cut down over twenty of Setther's men. Those hit lay on the ground, clutching their wounds and crying out in pain. The ones who had not been hit lifted their shields quickly, trying to protect themselves from the constant attacks from above.

A moment after the archers had attacked, the small, bloodied platoon of cultists that had led Setther into this ambush charged forwards. Swords glinted and voices shouted, praising their insane attack. Still shocked by the ambush, hardly any mercenary troops could defend themselves in time. The cultists ripped right through the front lines.

"Crush these infantry now. Archers, focus on the enemy above." Setther thundered.

Most men obeyed his orders. They stopped worrying about the arrows, or at least, put them in the back of their minds. For now, they worried about the ground troops. The only ones they could deal with. The archers began returning fire to the Black Hand archers. One by one, they were picked off.

Some of Setther's troops, however, chose a different path. Escape. They pushed their way back out of the ravine, desperate to escape the ambush Setther had led them into. They were disappointed however, to find a man in their way. Instead of the usual tunic and pants of Black Hand soldier, this man wore robes. A cultist mage.

"M-move aside, or we'll have to kill you." one man bravely shouted. His voice cracked, and he stuttered when he spoke. His fear was obvious. The cultist sneered.

"Do you know how many people have died in this ravine?" he asked.

Without saying anymore, he began speaking some arcane words. A chill spread through the air, and suddenly everyone's breath rose in a gentle mist. They shivered not from the cold but of fear. Suddenly, a hand rose out of the mud, followed by an arm, and then the entire decomposed body of a long dead soldier. The made had summoned the dead.

"Holy shit! Kill them, quick!"

"We can't, they're already dead. We have no weapons that can combat them either."

"The mage, kill the mage!" someone cried. But it was too late. The Undead had sprung up from the ground one too many and too fast for any of them to attack in time. The fleeing soldiers were forced to fight against an enemy they could not kill.

"It's hopeless! We're going to die here." a frightened standard-bearer cried out.

"We ain't gonna die!" Setther shouted, meanwhile looking at the madness all around him.

"It would take a miracle! Setther, you've led us to our deaths. It's your fault!" another accused.

Just then, a miracle happened. The archers from above suddenly stopped shooting down at them. Something had distracted them. Within a few moments, some of the cultist archers were being tossed over the ravine by an unseen force. One body landed near Setther. A knife was in his back. One of the knife's Setther had issued out to his mercenary troops.

"Peerha." he muttered, looking back to the ridge.

Soon, no more bodies were tossed from the ravine's edge. Taking the cultist's place were Peerha's archers. They wasted no time in shooting their own arrows into the ravine, dispatching living cultists and distracting the Undead long enough to be immobilized by a sword or an ax. Within a few minutes, and after several loud explosions, the Undead suddenly stopped attacking. They stood motionless, doing absolutely nothing.

"What the hell?" Setther wondered.

Cheering could be heard from the distance. Setther turned around and saw that it was his own men that were cheering. Fearing the worst, Setther pushed his way through the crowd and to the source of the cheering. It was Peerha they were cheering for. Peerha looked at his feet, where the cultist mage lay, blood pooling around him. Setther's worst fear had come true.

"You lost this battle Setther." Peerha said. His eyes were fixed on Setther's, as if he were trying to drill his words into Setther's thick skull. "If I had not intervened, you, and all these men, would have been crushed. You tried to kill me back there in the first skirmish. I only came to save the troops, not you. I am telling you now, in front of everyone, that your not the leader anymore. I am. I'm taking over."

"What!"

"Your actions and decisions both on and off the battlefield has divided us and nearly destroyed us. You were never a leader Setther. You were a dictator. You preyed upon these men and women, whose lives have been ruined. You said some stirring words, but all for your own personal gain. You didn't even care about them. You just wanted revenge for yourself. We were the tools. Well, we're not the tools anymore." A loud cheer erupted after this.

"You expect me to just give it up?" Setther growled. His grip tightened on his weapon. His feet tensed, ready to spring. Peerha paused.

"Yes."

"Never!"

It all happened in a split-second. A blur of motion was all that could be seen in the small circle of space. Suddenly, the motion stopped. Setther fell to the ground beside the mage, knife imbedded in his chest. Peerha did not even look surprised that Setther had attacked. He'd been expecting it the whole time. Setther lay there in the mud, feeling himself grow cold and numb. The last things he thought of was his family, the people he'd lost to the Black Hand, and the oath he'd sworn at their graves. "I'll make it right again. I'll avenge your deaths, no matter what the price."


	8. Under New Management

**Under New Management**

Seven days had passed since Peerha had killed Setther. Just seven days since the army had found a new general in Peerha Meroe. In that time, things had drastically changed.

Right off the bat, conditions were not so severe. Rations were given out in larger supply, because Setther had always believed that if you kept a tight lid on the food supply, then you would never run out. Peerha knew that the winter season wasn't for two months, and he didn't plan to fight this war in the cold. He'd finish it before.

Most troops were skeptical that Peerha could do this. But after three more small battles, they began to think otherwise. The first battle had bebitch the day after Peerha had taken over. They'd tracked down a small platoon of cultists that had taken up residence on an island off the Eastern Coast. They ambushed them, and by the end of the fight, they'd captured the rest of the survivors. Peerha had tried interrogating them, but found they'd rather die than betray their cult. So he let them go.

It was a game of luck he was playing here. Peerha had sent Jekhel to track them. Once they were a day ahead, Peerha took his troops and followed the trail Jekhel had left for them. After the third day of traveling, Jekhel appeared to him. The cultists had played right into their hands. They had marched to another small village, this one already been raided, it's outlanders killed, and the village fortified. But not by much. It was little more than an outpost. The natives of Morrowind that lived there were afraid of the Black Hand, even though they claimed to be the saviors of Morrowind. Peerha used this to his advantage.

He sent out the stealthiest troop in his arsenal to contact the people there, in secret. A day later, and the man returned. The people would rebel, and then Peerha's forces would swoop in and take the place by force. The mission was a complete success.

After this battle, the army had restocked their supplies, which had been given to them by the grateful people in the village. Once rested and re-supplied, the army moved out. Jekhel had looked over his map of Morrowind, and put ink blots on every location the Black Hand had occupied. Every time, the blots were scattered on the Eastern half of Morrowind. The farthest west the Black Hand had attacked so far was Vivec. Jekhel concluded they were afraid or were trying to lay low so they didn't get every political power attacking them.

Peerha wished every political power _would_ come down on them. If the Black Hand couldn't even dispatch his own small force of 150, how could they stand up to the combined forces of Tiber Septum, the Tribunal, and the three main houses of Morrowind; Redoran, Hlaluu, and Telvanni? The war would have been over by now, but with them, it was politics first. Peerha hadn't heard any news about any of those powers though. They were always in such remote locations, he wasn't surprised. For all he knew, they were trying to fight a war with the Black Hand.

But Peerha realized then the advantage of the Black Hand. This cult was not like any of the major political superpowers. They had only one permanent location: headquarters. Everything else was mobile. Small platoons were used to create outposts and bases. If headquarters wanted that outpost cleared out, then that small platoon could be gone within hours. With a power like Tiber Septum and the entire Imperial legion, it would take a full day. This was do to the fact that the Legionarres did not move in platoons. They moved in entire battalions. Hundreds would occupy bases and forts. Which meant a lot of men and supplies would be packed and unpacked daily. The Black Hand were simply faster. With this bonus on their side, they could always stay ahead of the enemy.

But if the Legion ever figured out where the Black Hand's base was, then it would be game over. Thousands would come down on the base, and destroy it. If they failed once, then they would be back again. Without at least one place to house the cult's leaders, it would all fall apart, and they'd simply be reduced to raving fanatics. That was also how he intended to win the war. Once Peerha discovered the Black Hand's main base, he would call in support from the Legion, and it would be finished. No more violence. No more raids. The only problem was doing it. He had no idea where the base could be, and no idea where to start.

However, the third battle would change all that. Peerha would happen across something that would set the end of it all in motion. Since it is such a milestone, this is the battle that will be described in full.


	9. The Beginning of the End

**The Beginning of the End**

The weather was stormy, once again. Rain, wind, lightning and thunder. The same as always. Above the sounds of pattering rain and clapping thunder were screaming voice; scared, angry, or dying. Occasionally, it was a mixture of all three. The battlefield was a village, completely cleared of civilians. The Black Hand had taken residence there now. Archers surounded the village, shooting down any who foolishly left themselves uncovered. Meanwhile, small squads of soldiers constantly probed the perimeter.

One squad would attempt to break through on one side of the village. The cultists would rush to fend them off. An instant later, another squad would attack the otherside of the village. This tactic forced the Black Hand troops to stay on their feet, constantly moving. Outnumbered as they were, they had to eliminate any threat immediately, or drive them off instead. Either way, Peerha's forces were breaking through.

"Sounds like we got through." Jekhel whispered.

"Sounds like it." Peerha agreed.

On the other side of the village, frantic shouts sounded, followed immediately by the clanging of steel on steel.

"It's our turn." Peerha whspered. The nine others around him nodded in agreement.

Peerha led the way. He stepped out from the large stone they'd been hiding behind, and quickly sprinted across the open space from safety to the perimeters of the village. His men followed just as quickly. An arrow whistled by, only a foot from his head. Peerha looked up to the buildings, sword raised, ready to try and deflect any more arrows. He knew his chances were less than good, but he had to try. Lightning forked across the darkened sky, and Peerha felt as if his stomach had erased itself from existence. Standing on the roof of a house, was the black outline of a lone archer. His arm was moving from shoulder to his shest, were all deatil was blurred by darkness. But Peerha knew what it meant. He'd reloaded.

Peerha gritted his teeth and listened for wial of another arrow being fired. He heard the whistle of an arrow go by, but he didn't try to swat at it. It had come from behind. His own archers had shot at the enemy. A thud told Peerha that he had no more arrows to fear. Peerha thanked every God he knew.

At last, he and the rest of his squad reached the perimeters of the village. They sneaked their way along the walls of the house the archer had been standing on. Once they reached the edge, he peered around the corner. He saw a large space that stretched twenty feet across and went some forty feet down to the main square where a chapel to the Nine had been built.Peerha could tell that the chapel was the cultist's last stand. Already, archers were taking postions on it's roof top. Victory was close. Still, it was not yet time to relaxe. Often times, it was the end of the battle that was the most dangerous.

Cautious as ever, Peerha jumped over the barrier of furniture that had been hastily contructed. As he landed, a cultist looked at him in surpise. Peerha grabbed his knife and threw it at the man. He had enough sense to move aside, and the knife ran into the wall. The cultist sprinted for his life to the chapel. One of Peerha's took out his own throwing knife, and took careful aim. The cultist was thirt feet away when the man threw his weapon. It sailed forward, and soon the darkness enveloped the blade. But they all saw the Cultist's figure drop to the ground like as if it had been hit in the head by something sharp and deadly.

"Your good." Peerha nodded. In reply, the man simply shrugged, as if a feat like this was normal for him. "Ok, you five, take the other side of this street. Go cautiously. We're going straight down the road, but first we're going to enter all six building along the way; clear them out. You take that three, we take this three. If you bite off more than you can chew, spit it out and re-group."

Everyone nodded in agreement and moved out. Peerha walked to the front of the house, and peered out onto the porch. Nothing was there. Keeping an eye out for archers, he stepped onto the porch and moved to the door. Once all the others had taken up positions, they crashed into the house. Two of them smashed through the windows, while Peerha kicked down the door and stampeded in.

The building was only one story, and it had only two rooms. The large living area and the smaller bedroom. Absolutely no one was in the living area. Two troops went into the bedroom. They came back and shook their heads. Nothing. Peerha relieved. It could have been worse.

The next two houses they cleared went down in the exact same fashion. They stampeded in, searched every room, and found nothing. The same had happened with the other mini-squad. All the cultists had piled into the chapel by now. Peerha's squad re-grouped and viewed the chapel from within one of the buildings.

Archers had taken postions all over the rooftops. About twenty of them could be seen from Peerha's point of view. He was willing to bet his life on it. And to some extent, he was. Inside the chapel, he had no idea how many there were inside. Some suggested simply burning the chapel down, but Peerha refused. He did not approve of burning down villages and towns, simply because the enemy is holed up there.

"Go tell the Archers to move in." Peerha ordered. A scout nodded and ran out the door. A few minutes later, and a single flaming arrow was shooting across the sky. It was the signal to tell the Archers it was safe to advance. Peerha gave them ten minutes to find positions. Meanwhile, he looked for something to use as a battering ram. Nothing. So he went with plan B.

-------------------

"Are they crazy? They have no way to break down our doors, but they are charging. It's suicide."

The man in charge of the cultists was perplexed. He watched through a window as he saw troops charging straight at the chapel doors, as if it would magically open itself. That's when the door froze into ice.

"Enchanted arrows?" the leader guessed.

The next instant, the door exploded in a shower of sparks as a lightning arrow hit it.

"We're all gonna die." murmured the man.

------------------

Peerha stepped through broken doorway, following the heels of three of his comrades. They immediately spread out to the sides, allowing room for more soldiers to invade quickly. Peerha took to the right as more came in from behind. He parried a blow that was sent his way and unleashed a wave of attackes on the mna, driving him backwards. The man stripped on a bench and fell to the ground. Instead of finishing him, he kicked away his sword and turned his back on him, focusing on deadlier foes.

He started advancing on one cultist, but he stopped suddenly and allowed a spear to fly past him. He looked over to the thrower, who looked severely dissapointed. The man struggled to unsheath his broadsword. Peerha stomped after him. The man drew his broadsword and looked up at Peerha. He was right in front of him. He made a motion to strike, but Peerha was already swinging. His sword went into his chest and out the other end. Peerha removed his sword and continued after the target he'd originally chosen.

Once again, he was waylaid by another enemy. Peerha dispatched him quickly enough, but when he found his chosen opponent, he found he'd been killed already. In fact, nearly everyone had been. Only a few cultists were left, and they quickly scampered upstairs. Peerha watched his men follow them up, and he left them to it. Only three cultists had ran upstiars. Ten of his own had chased after them.

Since the battle was over, he began to relaxe. He sat down on a bench and started looking around. Everything was messed up, and blood and bodies were the most prominent decorations the chapel had now. But as he continued to view the chapel, the more he saw it's original decor. On the walls, he could see nine different murals, each one depicting the Nine, and the beliefs that that each of those Gods had layed down.

"_Someone spent some time on this."_ Peerha thought.

Then he remembered the church bell. He'd seen it from the outside, and had seen what looked like carvings on it. Peerha got up and decided to check them out. He got up from the bench and went upstairs. His men passed him on the way.

"Nothing but dead guys up there sir." one of them said.

"Just checking out the church bells." Peerha answered.

"Need backup?"

"No, I don't expect to meet anyone there. Besides, I can handle it even if I run into some unwanted comapny." Peerha grinned, patting his Longsword's handle.

"I understand sir." he grinned back.

Peerha continued on his way. Once he reached the top of the stairs, he found himself staring down a corridor with multiple doors. He walked all the way to the end. Halfway there, he found the bodies the soldier had been talking about earlier. Peerha tried to avoid the mess, but found that impossible, so simply walked straight through. His boots left bloody prints for twelve steps until it finally started to fade away.

At the end of the hall, there was a door that led to the rooftop of the cathedral. Peerha opened it up and walked around the edge of the building until he found the ladder that led straight to the bell tower. He climbed carefully; it was still raining. One slip, and he'd be tumbling to his death. Peerha continued in spit of this, and soon reached the end.

The ladder was leaning against the wall of the small platform where people rung the bell. Peerha clambered over and stepped onto the wooden floor. Peerha frowned when he saw the bell. Upon it was not a single carving. Not even a painting. It was as plain as dirt. _'Then what was that strange shape I saw outlined against the bell?' _ Peerha wondered. Just then, a sneeze sounded on the otherside of the bell.

Peerha drew his dagger nstead of his sword. If it came to combat, he wouldn't have the room to swing here. Slowly, he took one reserved step at a time, circling the bell. Once he was halfway around, he found his suspect.

The man had his back turned to Peerha, and he looked him up and down, trying to size him up. The only logical guess was that this man was a Black Hand Cultist. He certainly wore the colors. But this man was dressed like no other cultist he'd ever seen.

The man wore the exact same black tunic and pants as the other cultists. But what seperated him from a common trooper was that he had no weapons on him at all. Since he carried no weapons, Peerha would have thought he was a mage. But then, he was not wearing the robes of a mage either. Peerha was dumbfounded.

Not wanting to risk anything, Peerha went went with the safest option he could. He gripped his weapon tightly and raised the dagger behind his head. Peerha brought his fist crashing down, the pommel of his blade connecting with the back of the man's skull with a dull thud. The alledged cultist hit the ground, knocked out cold.


	10. Interrogation

**Author's Note: **This is, so far, my favorite chapter of the story. I'mquite pleased with the action and story telling here, and I feel now, if ever, is the time for someone to review this. Tell me what you think of it, because it's new ground for me, and I'd like to know if it's a path were travelling again some day.

**-----------------**

**Interrogation **

The air was thick and musty in the basement of the chapel. A single lamp hung from the ceiling, it's light hardly adequate enough to illuminate the entire room. Instead, it only created a small globe of light, which played over the ceiling and onto the floor below. Everything else was swallowed up in darkness.

On the ground, sitting within the circle of light that sketched itself across the floor was a chair, and upon it, a single man. He was bound to the chair with tough chords of rope, so tight that constricted the man. Over his head was a filthy and disgusting pillow case, a veil that would both make his vision worthless and make his whole body retch as he breathed in the noxious odor.

He'd been like this ever since he woke up. His head was throbbing and the man was sure he'd been attacked from behind. Not once did he call out for help. It was useless anyways. This was an interrogation, and when being interrogated, you never showed a sign of weakness. Having a weakness meant it could be exploited, and if it was exploited, whatever vital information the interrogator wanted would be revealed. He wasn't about to let that happen.

And so it went, for a half of an hour, he sat there, waiting. Breathing in the horrible odor. Going crazier and crazier with the wait, but at the same time more and more resolved that he would beat this. He wouldn't betray his comrades by caving in. And if he was released, he wouldn't run back to base. He'd seen the results of running. It only led to another defeat. If he was freed, he'd kill himself, the first chance he got.

"_You know what it's like to fight blind?"_

The voice was barely more than a whisper. But every syllable was crisp and clear. It hissed liked a snake, and it's bite was filled with just as much venom.

"_It's a nightmare, that's what it is."_ The voice had spoken again, this time from a different direction. Still with the same, sinister edge.

"_You never know where they're coming from."_ Again, another direction. A footstep tapped lightly to the man's left. He braced himself for another verbal attack. But was surprised to hear it come from behind.

"_Just when you think you know where they are,"_ the voice said. _"they turn the tables and take you by surprise." _

A new sound made itself heard. The sound of a blade being drawn from it's sheath.

"_Just when you think you know what's coming at you,"_ the voice said. The cultist prepared for the stinging blow of a blade. Instead he felt something heavy collide with his stomach. _"it turns out to be something entirely different."_

Wind knocked out of him, the cultist gasped for air. His chest heaved in and out as his lungs tried to suck in air. But the blow had shocked his body, and no air would come. Combined with the horrible smell of the pillow case over his head, the cultist couldn't hold it in. He puked.

Putrid, hot liquid forced it's way up his throat and out his mouth. The pillow case made it hard for the vomit to escape, and with no way to remove the thing, all the cultist could do was feel humiliated as it dribbled down his chin and made it's way across his throat, staining his tunic. It only added to the horrible stench of his blindfold.

Hurt, and now disgraced, the man still didn't give in. He wasn't that weak. He could take more. He raised his head, chin held high.

"_You think your strong? You think you can handle punishment like this?"_ Another blow to the stomach. The cultist retched again, this time even worse. _"You can't. Your weak. You've failed, even before we've begun." _

The cultist lifted his head high, yet again. He'd beat this person, even if it wasn't in combat. This was a battle that had no place in the physical world. A psychological war, waged between these two people.

"_You think your a rock, strong and powerful. You think your unbreakable, don't you? Well rocks, boulders, entire mountains crumble eventually. Nothing is strong in this world. We're all weak, and we all break. You're no different. Already, the foundations are cracking. Like an ocean wave against a sea wall, it gets weathered down, and then it breaks apart and slides into the sea." _

Upon these words, the cultist no longer smelled his own vomit anymore. He smelled the salty sea air instead. He heard the sound of the ocean waves as the tide rolled back in. Large, powerful waves crashed against a wall of rock that, though he could not see, he could certainly imagine. The sound was so real, so relaxing. All of a sudden, there was a deafening cracking noise. The sound of rock as it was split in two. The sea roared in triumph as great slabs of stone fell into it's now violent waters.

"_Everything gets broken down with time." _

The cultist silently cursed himself. He'd somehow been tricked by his interrogator. He'd been tricked into believing he was somewhere else, somewhere calm and serene. But really it was a trick employed against him so that he would break down. He was still reeling from the shock.

"_Maybe you see yourself as a hero. A legend of old, who stood alone, unaided against a seemingly impossible enemy. But his courage and bravery withstood all, and in the end he came out the victor. People cheer for you as you pass by them, they delight in your triumphs. They fear no enemies, because they know you will stand tall, and cast them down." _

Even as the words were hissed into his ears, the cultist saw them come alive in his mind's eye. He saw hundreds of people all around him. Nationality and wealth didn't matter. Men, beasts, and Mer stood side by side, cheering together. The wealthy and the poor intermingled, brought together for celebration. And they were all cheering for him. The cultist couldn't do anything but indulge.

He lifted his arm and waved to the crowd, unaware that his real arm was bound to a chair. He blew kisses to the women, some of which returned the favor. One even fainted.

"_Why, even the king has called you into his presence." _

Everything went dark. But before the man could even begin to register it, a new scene took it's place. He found himself kneeling, head bowed. Someone ahead of him was talking, but he really couldn't hear any words. Then he heard it.

"I dub thee, Knight. Rise."

The cultist rose, and looked into the eyes of a king. He was a great man, tall and proud. His robes were magnificent, and his crown splendid. A sword lay in his hands. He offered it to him. The cultist bowed his head and accepted it.

"Good. Now, I have a cuest for my young knight. There is a dragon that needs slaying, you shall go into it's lair, and with this sword, pierce it's heart. Then, when she is dead, bring back an egg for me to take as my own. Destroy the rest. Go, and serve me proud."

"_A daring and noble quest. But surely such a brave knight as yourself can handle it."_

The scene changed once again. Gone was the warm and bright sun, replaced with a dreary and cold day. Clouds hid the sun from sight, denying any warmth to the land. A fog had grown, and the winds gently blew, making the fog pass by as he walked on.

The man looked around. On either side of him, large stone slabs jutted out of the dead grass, names and dates engraved upon their faces. Tombstones. The man continued on, in wonder and fear as he walked through the graveyard. Finally, he came too one stone in particular.

It was not a pretty thing. Even a poor man's headstone was far nicer than this one. The slab was little more than a small boulder, set carelessly into the ground. Small scratches rested on the stone, and with a closer look, the man could read what it said:

**A man lies here**

The cultist was just wondering who in the world could deserve such a grave when he saw what rested at the foot of the stone. Though it's steel was rusted, and the handle worn, there was no mistaking it. It was a knight's sword. _His_ sword, given to him by the king.

"_Even heroes fail. And when they fail, they are abandoned completely."_

The scene faded out around him, turning into blackness. Eventually, it was all black again. Tricked again, by this strange interrogator, who's voice hissed like a serpent. Once again, he'd been fooled into believing he was somewhere else. Now that he realized it, he cursed himself. He did not know it, but his head hung low. He was being broken down.

"_Abandonment. That word is a fate no one wants to endure. Everyone wants to have a friend or ally that will stand by them, even when they face an army of thousands. Everyone wants to have someone to rescue them. But the truth is, when it's too tough, your friends bail, and leave you all alone." _

The interrogator's words wove another scene. The man saw himself standing with an army behind him, facing down an even larger army. He heard himself say brave words, encouraging words. He saw the enemy charge. The ground shook, the air trembled. The man turned to his men again, to encourage them some more. Instead, he found nothing. Louder, the ground shook. Louder, the air trembled.

All alone. No one was going to help him. He had been abandoned, left to fight against thousands.

"_This isn't right."_ man thought. "_I am not on a battlefield. I am, I am somewhere else. The chapel, yes that's where I am." _

Instantly, the scene faded away. It was all blank again. He'd found a way to beat this interrogator. All he had to do was keep his head straight. If he listened to the man's words, then he would fall prey to his trap, and he would get beaten down again. He wasn't going to let that happen. Instead, he laughed.

The man kept on laughing, as if something hilarious had been said. Suddenly a hard blow to his chin came. He tasted blood, and he let it dribble out of his mouth. And then he laughed again.

"I've got you figured out." the man said, finally calming down enough to speak. "You are a strange breed of mage. You don't use hand signals and magical energy to weave your spells. You use words and your mind. You break into other's minds, and view it like a book. That's what you were trying to do. Every time I saw an image, an image you crafted, my self-conscious was taken out of it's home; my mind. With an empty head resting on my shoulders, you swooped in and took up residence. With the time you bought yourself, you started digging for the answers you've been seeking."

'But I figured you out. I know you haven't found what your looking for yet, otherwise you wouldn't have started that image. I realized that, and I kicked you out. Now that I know your tricks, you can't get what you wanted anymore. I'll just push you out. Or maybe, I'll build a wall around my mind, so you can't get in even if you try.

"_Walls can be broken."_ the voice hissed. _"Picks and axes. Battering rams and catapults. Destruction magic. Yes, walls can be broken." _

As the words once again worked their way through his ears, he saw a giant wall. He saw men with picks and axes, hacking away at the stone behemoth. A large booming sound, and he saw more men, carrying large battering rams. They all roared loudly with the effort it took, but they charged forward and slammed the large chunk of wood into the wall. He heard a creaking sound, and looked to find catapults, their counter-weights falling, the giant levers lifting up with a sudden and tremendous speed. As the lever hit a crossbeam, it's motion stopped, but inertia sent a large boulder it was carrying sailing into the air.

"Not right, not right. Not my mind, just an illusion. I'm not here!"

The scene faded to black again. The cracking of a wall was the only sound he could hear. Faint as it was, it rang loud and clear to him like a bell. He was still failing. The man was still breaking into his mind, and still delving deeper. Pretty soon, he'd strike gold.

"Hah! You see, I've beaten you again." the man scoffed, though he knew who had really won.

"Indeed. But too late, I'm happy to say. I've found some very interesting things about you my friend."

"I ain't your friend." the man spat.

"_And what would you know about friends?" _the interrogator hissed. _"I already told you, you don't have any. They abandoned you." _

Almost as if on cue, there was a rumble up above. Shouts, some frantic, some terrified. Then a clash of steel on steel.

"Barricade that door. We're not finished yet!" the interrogator's voice roared. It was no longer hissing. It was flat out yelling. But his next sentence was another hiss. _"An empty field, devoid of any trees or buildings. The sky is dark, the air frigid. The grass is laden with frost, and a chill is upon the air." _

Blackness succumbed to the field that had been described, but then it flickered, and went black again.

"I've beaten you." the man said. "I beat your words, so you can't break into my mind. Even if you could, you don't have the time. The Black Hand has come for me. And for you. You've lost."

"N-n-n-not tr-true! Not true! You haven't won anything, and you never will." The interrogator's voice was not hissing anymore. Now he was talking to the man, normally, without magic. This fact alone told the man volumes.

A loud boom sounded in the distance, from above. It was not the sound of a battering ram on a stone wall. It was the sound of a battering ram on a wooden door. The Black Hand were coming.

Splintering, cracking wood met the man's ears. They were coming through the door. Frantic screaming, inside the room. His own captives were panicking. Crossbows were being fired, swords rang as they were drawn, and clanged as they collided with each other, and blood splattered as swords sliced through a man. The sounds of battle grew louder, closer. It was all around him. He heard a loud scream sound from above his head, and only grow louder as the screaming came down towards him. It ended with a dull thud.

Something powerful grabbed his hair, and the man felt the cold steel of a blade on his neck.

"I can still kill you." It was the interrogator. He was whispering this. But his next words were a hiss. _"I hate you with a passion. So be happy to know you will be the first and only person I do this too." _

"I'm thrilled that I'll be your first kill."

"_Shut up. Now, I'm going to take this nine inch, serrated dagger and slit your throat. The blood is going to spurt out as the pressure from the pumping of your heart forces it out. If your scared, it might go thirty feet. I've seen forty. After the spurt, the blood will simply flow out of your new wound like a river. The blood will flow down this black tunic of yours. It'll run down your legs, and make a deep, dark, crimson pool around your feet. You ready?" _

The man saw everything the man said vividly and clearly. He saw himself and the interrogator, a smaller man than himself. He saw the man stiffen his arm, and jerk wildly. The blood shot thirty-five feet. It flowed like a mighty river. It ran down his legs. It pooled about his twitching body's feet. Exactly as it was described. Then it went black.

"You ready?"

His interrogator was still holding his head back, the knife to his throat. He felt the arm stiffen. Then something new happened. Something small whistled past his head, and it thudded into the interrogator. The knife was let loose, and it clattered to the floor. He was saved.

The battle died down around him. Arrows and bolts rained from above, and a few swords met. Finally, there was silence.

"Hail, who sits in that chair, bearing the mark of the Black Hand? Speak or be shot."

"A soldier of purity. A loyal Black Hand follower, such as yourselves, I presume."

"Right you are. Mer, untie him."

Hands pressed upon his face, and the stinking pillow case was ripped from him. Fresh, clean air. Bright, stinging firelight. They were sorely missed, and he gasped not in shock but in enjoyment. As his eyes adjusted, more hands pressed against the rest of his body. The chords binding him were cut loose.

The man rubbed his arms, getting his blood to flow more freely through his veins. He sat relaxed, but already, he knew what was next.

"What did you tell them?" asked a soldier. A platoon leader.

"Nothing."

"Nothing at all?" inquired the leader.

"Nothing."

"That is good. It would have been a shame to kill such a good soldier as yourself." the platoon leader said. His hand fell from his sword's handle.

"I would not celebrate yet though." the man said, softly.

"Why not?" His voice was nothing but ice.

"This interrogator, he was not like anything I've ever heard of. He had a unicue gift. He had a magical ability that affects the mind. Using his crafty words, he wove them together and spoke of worlds and settings, and with such description. His words took me to those places. For those precious few seconds, my mind wandered the lands he created. With my conscious away, he invaded my mind. He forced the information out of me, even though he did not speak. I do not know what he found. I fear the worst."

The darkened room, illuminated only by the single lamp, was dead silent. The only sounds made was the torch's flickering light, and a soft dripping noise from somewhere in the dark. Finally, the platoon leader spoke.

"You know the laws."

"Yes. Failure is death. I have failed you." the man hung his head.

"You were an honorable soldier. Misfortune found you this day. May the Gods have mercy on your soul."

Absolutely no pain was felt. Even as the sword sliced through his neck, severing the man's head. It rolled a few feet, and stopped to stare up at the lamplight. Shame was etched across the man's face. Before the blade swung, his last thought was what the afterlife held in store for him. Then it all went dark.

----------------

"W-what is this?"

The foul smell. His vomit, his blood. He tried to move, but the cultist found himself tied down by an unseen force. It all suddenly made sense now. His brothers coming to save him from any more disgrace. The entire battle. It was all an illusion created by that snake of a man, that interrogator.

"You bastard. Find what you were looking for?"

"Yes actually. I know more than enough to bring your entire fanatical cult crashing down. You were an interesting one, I must say. A challenge indeed. No one has ever broken through my illusions before. But that last one, that one was too good. To think, I had to weave an illusion, _within_ an illusion, just to throw you off. You've certainly given me quite the challenge."

"I'll kill you."

"Considering that you're all tied up, I don't think that will be happening. And besides, how would you know if you were fighting me, or another illusion?"

"Oh I'd know." the cultist spat.

"Of course you would. But I'm afraid, that won't be happening. Well then, now that I am finished with you, there's no need for low-life scum such as yourself to be infesting this Nirn anymore, now is there? Remember that lovely illusion of mine I create for you. The knife, and the throat, and all the blood. Well, this time, it's not going to be an illusion."

-----------------

"Jekhel, my friend. How did the interrogation go?" Peerha asked as he saw the man come through the door.

"It went well. You should sit down for this, because I've got a lot to tell you."


	11. Preparation

**Preparation **

Peerha sat down. He also grabbed a bottle of Sujamma and removed the cork. Jekhel lita pipe and settled himself into a chair opposite Peerha. The alcohol from the bottle poured out and into two wooden mugs. Once filled to the brim, Peerha passed one to Jekhel and then took a large gulp from his own.

"First off, I know exactly where the Black Hand headquarters are."

"Where?" was Peerha's instant reaction.

"Don't know, but I have a name."

Peerha's face went from expecting to disappointed in a split second. He took another large gulp from his mug.

"How are we supposed to find the place if we don't know where it is on a map. I seriously doubt there base is going to be located on any maps we have."

"Your exactly right. However, you remember that stuff we confiscated."

"A vile with some unknown purple liquid inside, and a map of Vvardenfell. What's your point?"

"Get me that stuff, and I'll explain it in full."

Peerha stared for a few seconds. Sighing, he got up and disappeared inside a bedroom. He came back with the map and potion. Jekhel took them both.

"Right, now this map may look normal, but that's what it's supposed to do. It's got an enchantment on it." Peerha's interest was once again up. "The enchantment is very simple. You say a little phrase, state a location, and the map will work it's magic. Watch."

Peerha peered down at the map as Jekhel leaned into it. Then, he spoke.

"I, loyal follower of the Black Hand, peruse this map. Argentunium."

Before Peerha's eyes, a word grew upon the map. Small, silver letters written in a curly, wavy pattern that formed the word Argentunium. Just below the word, there was a small circle, with a star centered inside.

"Amazing.One question though. How the hell do all these troops get from Argentunium in the west, to the East over here without being sighted?"

"You forget the potion. I've discovered that this potion is used to teleport you to the location you call for on the map. That's how massive armies can move so quickly. That's why we can't find any tracks. They simply teleport. That's also how information is carried from headquarters to small, movable locations. It all makes sense now, don't you see?"

"Ya I see it." Peerha said, holding the vile of potion in front of his eyes. "Do you know how to make this stuff?"

"Never found that out. We can get an alchemist from a town to analyze it, dissect it, figure it out. Why?"

"Because I want one of these for every single one of our troops. Then we can teleport to Argentunium, and take them by surprise."

"Surprise wouldn't help us. Peerha, I know how many troops are at the Black Hand's command."

"And."

"Six thousand. We'd be crushed." Jekhel answered flatly.

Peerha whistled appreciatively. "Well then, time to call in back-up. Wonder where that Imperial Army is?"

Just then the word for Argentunium disappeared. Replacing it was the word Imperial Army. A small dot followed. They were located two hundred miles south-west of their current location.

"I think we've found out."

"Ok then. First off, let's find us an alchemist. Then, I'll teleport to the Imperial Army and discuss the battle plans. Then, it's off to end this war."

-----------------------

Finding an alchemist proved simple enough. It turned out that one of their very own troops was an alchemist, before the war. Jekhel had found him by chance, after talking about it during dinner. The man had stood up, introduced himself, and revealed that they would help. After that story had spread throughout the army, everyone was glad they had an alchemist with them. None of them wanted to march back to the nearest town.

Instead, the troops camped out in the village while the alchemist set up his equipment in his room. It took a week to study the stuff, and determine the ingredients. It was a complexion mixture, bound together with a teleportation spell of high difficulty. A few more weeks later, and a minor explosion, he and a skilled mage had produced the first bottle.

"That's good, very good. Keep making that stuff. Teach others how to do it so you can make it faster. We're going to need a lot of it."

------------------------

Within an hour, Peerha had gathered up all his stuff, and was ready to teleport. Jekhel reviewed the information, so he wouldn't forget anything. A crowd had gathered around Peerha, because they wanted to see this for themselves.

"Imperial Army."

The map showed the army's location, which had not moved since it was last located. After the name was called out, Peerha tossed the teleportation potion down at his feet. It crashed into the ground and shattered. If it had been any other potion, the liquid inside the vile would have simply splattered all over Peerha's feet. But instead, thick purple smoke curled up from the point where the bottle had smashed, engulfing Peerha.

As it surrounded him, he felt a strange sensation, as if he was fading away from the world. The feeling reminded Peerha of his exploits some years back, on another adventure. He'd used an entirely different, but much more powerful kind of teleportation magic to move about in those exploits. However, the effects remained the same.

A light headed feeling, and loss of vision. He felt as if he was no longer standing on solid ground, but instead floating in the air. He knew however, that this was not what was happening. Peerha did not know exactly how teleportation worked, but he'd heard rumors that one traveled through a magical energy flow, or some other nonsense like that. Some day, he'd find out exactly how it all worked.

The light-headed feeling dissipated slowly, and at the same time, Peerha's vision faded back. No longer was he looking at his soldiers, eagerly watching his disappearance. Now he was standing in a ring of Imperial Legionarres. All of them had a different look on their faces. Some were scared, some amazed, and most were shocked. But if there was one thing they all had in common this was it it; they all had their weapons out, and all were holding them at Peerha's throat.

"I come in peace." was all Peerha could manage to say at the moment.

----------------------------------

"So, the great Peerha Meroe has appeared within the ranks of my army, unannounced, and certainly uninvited. Why? Do be quick about it. You've caused quite a scare in my troops, and such a demoralizing blow can't be tolerated without punishment."

It had taken Peerha a long time to get to this point. He'd been punched by several people, including an angry interrogator. After a lot of angry questions, the Knight finally arrived. Varus Vatinius had reprimanded the interrogator for such harsh abuse, but had then treated Peerha with no trust at all. Peerha had quickly explained who he was to the Knight. It took him a lot of thinking to match him up to the legends and stories, but he finally decided that Peerha was who he said he was.

"A long, interesting story short, I know where the Black Hand's base is." Varus sat down, lit a pipe, and waited patiently for a full explanation.

Peerha launched into his story, starting from the formation of the mercenary army, to their latest battle. Varus listened with respectful attention, but he only actually began to listen when Peerha mentioned his battle plans, and how he could beat the Black Hand, for good.

"That's good." he would say. Other times, he would just grunt, puff on his pipe, and nod his head up and down.

"So, now you can see how my plan would work. It will take some time to prepare, about a month, maybe less. But it would certainly catch them by surprise." Peerha finished.

"Indeed. If only half the legends are true, then truly I can trust you. Didn't you save all of Nirn once from that dreaded Aheera Mazda?"

"Me and a group of companions yes. You might have been there in the final battle. The Imperial army was there as a decoy."

"I served in that battle." Varus recalled. "You had overthrown a tyrant of a Knight. I've forgotten his name, but he was not a nice guy, I'm sure. Much like that Setther fellow you described."

"But I'd say, much worse." Peerha stood up. Varus followed suite. "Well, I need to get back to my own army now. I will send a messenger to keep you updated. Oh, and you should know, all of the stories are true. Save one."

"Which one, pray tell, might that be?"

"The one where I killed two dragons by myself. It was actually only one, but it had two heads. And Pariah helped me."

-------------------------------

When Peerha returned to his army, he found things going well. The troops were gaining some much deserved rest. Those good with Armoring were repairing armor and weapons. Several pairs of troops were making the potions, producing them at a rate just slight over thirty a day. It was all going perfectly, and Peerha finally felt some peace again, knowing that soon, his troubles would be over.

.


	12. A Night Visitor

**Night Visitor**

The moons had risen high in the darkened sky that following night. The stars were out, twinkling brightly, cheerily. At this particular time of night, almost everyone was asleep. Sentries were keeping a watchful eye on the quiet woods, spears held relaxed. Everyone that was meant to be sleeping was peaceful and serene. Peerha himself was dreaming of his wife, and of his brother. Happy, together. But something woke him from his good dream.

He opened his eyes, hand shooting for the dagger under his pillow. A strong, but small hand caught his wrist, keeping him from moving. His assailant's outline was hovering over his body, but no weapons were visible. Peerha relaxed, but stayed alert. he figure stepped backwards, and into the moonlight.

The pale light revealed the figure. A Redguard woman, with long hair drawn into a fashionable and practical tail. She was tall and lean, her body muscular. She was a very acrobatic warrior, Peerha knew. Though he knew this not by sight, but my memory. He knew who this was. The woman put her finger to her lips, then waggled her fingers a little, a motion for him to follow. She walked away as Peerha quickly, but silently dressed.

Quickly and quietly, the two stalked out of the village and into the woods, where no one else was. The woman turned around and looked at Peerha, and he to her. They both smiled.

"Peerha it's good to see you again."

"You too Tsirii, you too."

The two friends hugged each other, glad to be in each other's company.

"It has been a while." Tsirii noted.

"Ten years is too long." Peerha agreed.

"What have you been doing in this time?"

"I was looking into retirement actually. I didn't want to do the warrior thing anymore. I was starting a family. Becoming a businessman in my freelancing company, and a collector in artifacts. You?"

"The opposite. I have seen many more battles since our quest." Tsirii said, pride filling her voice. "You say you are retired, but you lead an army? Explain."

"Sad story. We're fighting the Black Hand. That mad cult that believes Elves are the only race that deserves to live. The rest have to die, according to them. Well, they raided Vivec, and they killed my wife. I've been fighting ever since, and that was a year ago.'

'And why are you asking me questions. That should be my job at this moment. What are you doing here?'

"It is a long tale. But it is something that involves you, and it is much bigger than this." Tsirii said.

"Well, what is it?"

"I cannot tell you just yet. You are leading your troops in war. When it is finished, I want you to use this ring." Tsirii handed the object to Peerha. "Read these instructions to do so. All will be explained then."

Peerha took the ring and looked at it. It was a plain ring, made of silver. A small, round stone was set in it. Peerha touched it, to fell it's texture. He was surprised to feel that it was freezing, like ice.

"Wait a minute. Is this the-"

"The blue ice, yes. I broke it into these small pieces here, and turned them into rings."

"Why?"

"All will be explained with time Peerha."

"I hate it when you say that."

"But it's the truth. Now, I must go. You must rest and continue preparing for battle. Stay safe, my friend."

With those words, Tsirii closed her eyes. The ring glowed a small, pure blue. The light spread across her hand and arm, and soon enveloped her whole body. And then, she was gone. Peerha wanted desperately to know what was going on. But he knew it was no good to think about it. It would only distract him. Maybe even get him killed. So Peerha resolved to put it out of his mind. He'd need every bit of sense about him when the last battle finally came.

.


	13. Final Retribution

**Final Retribution **

It had taken thirty days to create enough teleportation potions for both Peerha's army and the Knight of the Imperial Dragon's. Thirty days to prepare his troops, mentally and physically, for the final battle. It would be an ardous task. Peerha kept them motivated by reminding them that if they pulled it off, then they could finally 'lay there swords to rest and begin again the lives we have lost.'

Those words had been said the night before the battle. The entire army had gathered together and ate a feast. No rations this time either. The men and women were allowed to eat as much as they wanted. Happily they had dug in and drank there apple cider. (They weren't allowed any alcohol. Peerha didn't want them to have a hangover when they fought.) However much fun this may have been, there is no need to touch any further on the subject. What was important was the next morning.

On this next morning, the air was warm, and the sun bright and shining. Birds were singing. Peerha had gathered his troops within the swamp lands, some hundreds of yards away from the stronghold. He was confident they would not be spotted, as they were all under the protection of a powerful invisibility spell. The spell was being upheld by several mages, some of them from the the Imperial Legion.

A loud, shrill bird call went through the air. It was a signal from a scout. Vatinius' troops were making themselves known. Peerha whistled once in the same fashion. After a moment's pasued, he whistled once again, then another, and another, and ended with a lengthy whistle. Silently, his entire army started creeping through the swamp, advancing on the unsuspecting fortress.

As they neared closer and closer, Vatinius' army could be seen. They were charging at the fortress. Arrows were being exchanged from either direction. The Black Hand had definitely been caught by surprise. It was only when the Legionarres had reached the foot of the stair case that the troops began filtering through the buildings. They charged down the stairs and rushed headlong into the fight. The lone few who had foolishly ran ahead of the rest were skewered or trampled. The Legionarres bursted onto the fortress' plateau area and began attacking small gathering of cultists, even as more of them bursted out from the buildings.

Peerha stopped when he came to within a stone's throw of the fortress' walls. He listened carefully as his men crept up to him. He whistled loudly, and they stopped moving. He looked up to the fortress walls and saw that there were two sentries there. They kept all there attention focused on the battle. Suddenly an arrow hit each of them in the back, and they tipped over the edge. Peerha waited for the next part of the plan to begin.

He knew it was about to happen when he noticed himself become visible again. The mages needed the rest of their strength for this part. And after it was done, there would really be no need for invisibility anyway. He turned around and saw a sea of troops behind him. Though he knew they had been there the whole time. It was still a shocking sight to see an army suddenly appear before you. The mages made there way through the crowd and stepped out, past the front ranks.

They all stood there for a full minute, hands glowing, growing brighter by the second. The first mages unleashed there spells. A ball of ice shot out from her hands and slammed into the wall. The walls took on a glazed look, just like ice. Then another batch threw balls of fire at the freezing walls. The flames slammed against the wall and spread all along it's surface. Peerha turned away because the heat was that intense. When he looked back, he found deep cracks in it, a result of extreme heat and cold being applied to a surface, and with little to no intermission either. The final assault upon the wall were two great bolts of lightning. They struck the walls and exploded. Dust filled the air, and Peerha was pelted with tiny pieces of stone. The assault was a success.

Peerha whistled once again. The army roared a battle cry and charged forwards through the dust. As Peerha charged, the ground changed rapidly. When he had began, the ground had been convered with dust and pebbles. But every few yards he gained, the pebbles turned to stones, and the stones to roks, and the rocks to boulders. From there, the boulders became great slabs of rock. It did not get any bigger than that, because the only piece of the fortress that was bigger than a giant slab of stone was the entire fortress itself.

Before Peerha was a gaping hole in the fortress. The spells had blown a hole in the center of the stronghold's side, exactly half it's length when measured from corner to corner. The hole also almost entirely match it's heigth. Peerha could also clearly see both floors, and the many shocked and frantic cultists.

In order to get inside, Peerha still had to climb on top of a boulder, then leap onto a slab of ston that had fallen, and was now leaning against the wall; creating a perfect ramp. After Peerha had made it past those obstacles, he leapt into the stronghold.

The air was thick with dut, making it near impossible to see. It may have been bad news for Peerha and the other mercenarys, but the same held tru for the cultists as well. However, the Black Hand was in sever disarray, where as the mercenarys knew exactly what was going on and what to do. It turned out to be a huge advantage.

Peerha looked for an opponent, and then felt something pass his head so fast and so close that he could feel the wind the 'something' had created. Peerha whirled around and found a small cultist struggling with a far too oversized batle axe.

"_Should have picked a smaller weapon."_ thought Peerha.

Peerha slashed at the throat. His opponent hit the ground. More and more mercenarys were filtering through the hole and into the fortress, so Peerha decided to move out of the way. He went to the inside wall of the hallway he was currently located, and found that that too had been blown apart.

The hole here revealed a room. Judging by all the beds, Peerha concluded that it was one of the sleeping quarters. He scanned for enemies, but no one else was there. Dissapointed, he exited the room, via doorway. As he kicked the solid-wood door open, he heard a thud and a crunching sound as it stopped mid-swing. He looked to the door, and found a large crack in it. Another thud sounded, coming from the floor. Peerha peered around the door and found a cultist slumped there, blood beginning to drain onto the floor from his head.

_"There's one way to go."_

------

As the battle progressed, so did it's intensity. Though long in coming, the Black Hand had finally pulled themselves out of their surprised state and began working together to defend the stronghold. Their knowledge of the stronghold enabled them to defend it easily, making it extremely difficult for either army to gain any new ground. However, since two armies were storming the stronghold, it spread the defenders thin, making it an even battlefield.

Whenever one army would gain a foothold, they would either be taken by storm and lose it, or they would lose position in an entirely new area. One particular area was having the most troublesome of diffculties.

It was the underground level of the stronghold. This place was a cavern, furnished for multiple uses. In some places, there were great long tables that were once used for eating; now they were flipped on their sides, and used as protection by cultist archers. Other places, they were bunks, or benches and other furniture. These had been assembled in a long coulumn, stretching from one end of the wide cavern to the other. The objects here had been set on fire, and the flames were blazing high, just barely licking the ceiling. Thick smoke filled the cavern, making it difficult to see, even breathe.

Behind this line of defence, in the back half of the cavern, was the the final Black Hand troops. They stood in unision, shields up in case a stray spear came there way. The archers in this battalion were firing relentlessly, felling as many as they could before they were forced into melee combat. They had an almost unending supply of arrows, and they were not hesitating to exhaust that supply.

On the other side of the burning column was the rest of the cultist. They were fighting savagely, backed into a corner. They had no where to go. They could not get to their waiting comrades; the flames would engulf them and deal them a fiery death. They could not go back through ther Stronghold. It was too full of enemies. The only place they could go was within the cavern.

Here, there were no clearly drawn lines. There were no ranks, no strategies. It did not matter where there position was. The mass of troops changed all to quickly. One moment you would be surrounded by allies, the next a swarm of enemies. On this battlefield, a soldier bore the uniform of his alliance, and fought every person bearing his enemey's own uniform. That was all there was to it.

At some moments, it would seem that the Legionarres and Mercenaries had claimed the battlefield. But then suddenly, a large host of Cultists would explode through one of it's hundreds of entrances, and the conflict would continue. Sometimes the Cultists would have the upper hand, only to have it challenged by another host of enemies.

The battle here continued for many minutes. Ten minutes came, then twenty, and it stretched to an hour. The heat was sweltering, the smoke opressive. But neither side would back down. They continued to fight, even if they would die of smoke inhalation later. At last though, the tides of the battle were levvied. The entrances were being plugged by a large host of troops, or the doors were shut and barred. After a hard, difficult struggle only three entrances remained. The battlefield no longer became reinforced with cultists, only Legionarres and Mercenaries. The cultists were finally dealt with, now three armies remained. The mercenaries and Legionarres stood on one side of the burnign column, the Cultists on the other.

Varus looked around at his troops and allies. They were panting heavily, all of them coughing, and some even trying to remove their armor. He peered through the flames, and smoke, and found his enemies were doing the same. He too felt the incredible pains this fire was inflicting. He could not bear to fight another battle in these conditions. And he suspected that his enemy could not either. Varus stepped ahead of his troops as they assembled in ranks. He walked as close to the flames as he could.

"Leader of the Black Hand Cult, I call you out! I wish to discuss a new, more favorable battlefield to us both."

Everyone waited in silence for a reply. Then it came, swiftly, an arrow that terrified and enraged everyone as it pierced Varus in the chest. It had hit dangerously close to his heart. Several troops rushed to his aid. Two of them grabbed his shoulders, and another two picked him up by the feet. The others raised their shields as Varus was carried to safety.

Meanwhile, an uproar surged through the soldiers. Arrows were fired like mad, with absolutely no aim whatsoever. They were just hoping they'd hit somebody on the other side. Buckets were filled with water from the nearby well, and poured continually on the flames. Finally though, mages cast spells of ice and snow upon the flames, and they died down to embers and mere thumb sized flames. The two armies charged into each other.

First thudding noises filled the cavern as the frontlines smashed into each other. They used their shields to slam their opponents, knocking them down to the dirt and leaving them open for a killing blow. As the thudding noise faded away, it was replaced with the typical sounds of battle, though it was magnified many times by the cavern and it's great stone walls.

Although the soldiers of the Black Hand were in far better fighting condition, their intensity could not be matched by the Legionarres. They fought for their fallen leader, some in revenge, and some in the hope that winning this battle would bring hope for Varus' life as well. The mercenaries fought with the same amount of fury because they found themselves reminded of their families. Of how they'd been killed dishonorably; just the way Varus had been shot down.

Peerha Meroe was in the thick of this mess, somewhere amidst the violent swirl of enemies and allies. Peerha picked his enemies, one at a time, and moved forward only as much as he dared. He still stayed within a sensible distance of his troops. Backup would always be handy, especially when surrounded by more than a few experienced experienced.

"Do not stop. They are being driven back! They are afraid of us. Keep striking that fear into their souls!" Peerha yelled. He thought it was a kind of stupid thing to say, but decided it was the best thing to keep the troops motivated. And above all else, it worked.

His troops fought a little bit harder, and kept pushing them back. They did not let the Black Hand breathe, otherwise it would become a stalemate. Peerha kept the pace. He squared off against an enemy, and after figuring out his oppenent's style, skill, and vulnerabilities, Peerha delivered the final wave of attacks meant to take advantage of those vulnerabilities. Once an enemy was finished, he wasted no time in marching a few yards deeper, and facing his next opponent. His troops followed suite.

After constantly pushing and driving, what was left of the now devestated Black Hand was corralled into the very back of the cavern. This left them with a stone wall behind them, and a pissed off army in front of them. And no one was feeling very merciful.

The Black Hand fought viciously still, cornered as they were. Peerha plowed in anyways. Well actually, dove is a better term.

He leapt from his feet and dove into the front lines. If he had not, he would have been hacked to pieces by their swords. Peerha tucked into a roll when he hit the ground, and then quickly got up on his feet. Many cultists surrounded him, and they were all about to attack at once. Peerha held out his sword, and spun on his heel. The blade arced with his momentum and force.

The cultists leapt out of harm's way. Except for one, who promptly caught a face full of steel.

With a little more room to breathe, Peerha prepared to defend himself against a maelstrom of attacks. All at once, it happened.

They attacked Peerha simultaneously, weapons glinting and multiple angles. The guy to Peerha's left had started just a second faster than the others. Peerha started with him. He sidestepped in that particular man's direction. The man tried to compensate, and swing his axe down on a much closer target. The attempt was futile.

The axe swung harmlessly by Peerha's shoulder, while he himself brought his sword up to the man's throat. Keeping in mind that he still had a handful of opponents behind him, Peerha killed to birds with one stone. He brought his dagger up to the man's throat instead, and used that to dispatch him. Meanwhile, he kicked the man's body at the other cultists, causing them to scatter. Peerha seized his chance.

He threw his dagger at an opponent. It sank into his shoulder, and he fell to the ground in shock and pain; but he'd be back. Peerha ran forwards and parried a blow aimed at his side. Peerha countered, and his sword ran through the man's left forearm and all the way up to his ear. He wouldn't be getting back up again.

Something bit Peerha in his side. Peerha wheeled around and saw a cultist bearing down on him, his short sword dripping with blood. Peerha replied by slashing for the man's shoulder. He countered. The two exchanged blows with blinding speed. Sparks flew every now and then. Peerha caught a flutter of movement to his left. He dropped low to the ground, and was well rewarded. Another cultist had tried to behead him while he was occupied.

His new attacker stumbled after Peerha as he rolled backwards. Peerha dug his heels into the ground, stopping suddenly. The man kept coming, but did not realize that Peerha was waiting, his sword ready. The man walked right into Peerha's longsword.

The grunted and fell down on top of Peerha's sword. Peerha was abut to flip the body over and retrieve it, but had to duck when his former opponent threw a knife at him. Peerha stood up and drew his own kinfe once again. The cultist had his serrated shortsword though. Peerha realized then he was outmatched.

"Guess I'll have to even the odds."

The man attacked first. He swung downwards at a vertical angle. Peerha ducked and sidestepped. The man's chest was wide open. Peerha stabbed at it with his knife. It hit, but did not penetrate the cultist's leather armour. The man swung again. Peerha grabbed the man's wrists before the blade could come down. They struggled a bit. Peerha kicked him in the shins while the cultist butted his head against Peerha's own. Finally, there was an end to the deadlock.

Peerha loosed the man's sword and kicked it away. The cultist, meanwhile, punched him hard in the jaw. Peerha stepped back and massaged is mouth for a second while the cultist drew a second knife. The two squared off for a second. The cultist tensed, ready to spring. Peerha stood ready to defend. Then, the cultist fell to the ground, an arrow in his back.

"What!" Peerha thundered. "That one was mine!"

Peerha had no more time to complain however, because he was suddenly occupied with a rush of cultists. It was a suicidal attack really. There was nothing left of the Black Hand. Barely even a score of men left. But they weren't going to surrender. Peerha fought them off while his allies swarmed around him. It only took a few seconds to destroy the last of the cultists.

Peerha stood and looked around. There were a lot of bodies on the ground. The bulk of it was cultists, but every now and then a legionarre or mercenary dotted the battlefield. Wounded cried out for help, and it was delivered quickly. Peerha wiped clean his sword, and sheathed it. The battle was officially over.

About ten seconds later, everybody else realized that. A large bout of cheering went through the air. Everyone rejoiced. Just not the dead, and the wounded weren't feeling very festive either. Everyone but the dead and the wounded rejoiced. And one other person wasn't celebrating either. And that was Peerha.


	14. Another Adventure

**Another Adventure **

After the victory, the dead had been tallied. Some 8,000 cultist troops had died, and absolutely no survivors or captives. The Legion had suffered a small loss. Even though they'd never fought the Cultists before, superior combat training for any enemy and conditions had kept them alive. And even the mercenarys, who had far less experience and training, lost minimal numbers. Of course, that was mostly due to the fact that they'd fought nothing but Cultists.

All Legion and Mercanary bodies were wrapped up and sent to their respective homes, so that they could be properly buried. Those without homes were sent to where their homes had once been. If it was a Legionnarre in the same situation, they were sent to the fortress they'd last been stationed at. The cultists were left to rot.

Finally, after all the bodies had been cleaned up and removed from the plateau area, a party began. Food was served, and the soldiers happily ate and drank. The party got truly interesting when some musical instruments were procured from within the stronghold. Those that could play them were summoned up, and soon they were playing away.

"Good music eh?" Asked Tactus.

"I've heard better." Peerha replied.

"Sure, it's a bit off-tune, but it's the only music I've heard in a godd long time." Tactus argued.

"Peerha, you gotta relaxe man. The war's finished. We have no more troubles to worry about now."

"For you maybe. But for me the war hasn't ended. I thought it had though, years ago. When I married Elith, I'd thought it was all behind me. But my war just kept on continuing. I couldn't escape it. So I left her alone, and went on an expedition. I fought many battles. I found many treasures. That expedition was what I needed. My war had ended."

'But then I come home, and I find the war's started all over again. It just won't end for me.'

Jekhel and Tactus stared for a very long time.

"You feelin' alright?"

"Tactus, you're an idiot. Of course he ain't okay!" Jekhel slapped Tactus lightly on the head. "Peerha, tell us what's going on. What do you mean by all that."

"It means that I'm hurting. When I fought Mazda, I lost my brother. I was hurt. Even after Mazda was destroyed, and I'd put Pariah's soul to rest, I was not comforted. I still missed him. The weight that had been lifted off my shoulders just kept coming back. Every battle and adventure I partook in was a battle against my own demons. I couldn't help but despair over him."

'Finally I gave up and quit freelancing. I settled down, started beginning a family. I figured if I put the battles behind me, I'd leave the demons behind too. Well, they found me. They haunted me in my sleep, at first. But then they took hold of me during the day too. It was depression at it's worst. So I tried something. I went on an adventure, like the golden days. A quest for treasures, a quest for new challenges to overcome, new adventures to experience. It cured me right up. I was freed of my demons."

'And that's when I came home. I found my wife dead, my home burned to the ground. All the old wounds re-opened, and the demons flooded me. This war, this physical war against the cultists, was also a war against my demons. I thought that if I won this war, I would free myself up.'

Jekhel interjected. "But you haven't, have you."

"No. A week ago, I was contacted by a friend of mine. We shared many adventures together. She told me that some urgent business had arisen, and it needed my help immediately. So you see, I'm still being haunted by my demons. I need to leave, and find out what this is all about. Then I might be able to free myself."

Though the laughter was loud and raucous all around them, it all sounded eerie and silent to the trio.

"When are you leaving?" said Tactus.

"Now." Peerha stood up. "Tell whatever story you choose to the troops, should they ask. Good bye my friends." Peerha turned and started walking away. Jekhel spoke up again though.

"Peerha. When you get sorted out, find me in Ebonheart. I'll have opened an alchemy shop there. Be sure to see me again."

"I will Jekhel. I promise."


End file.
